


The Lady's Favour

by turtle_paced



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtle_paced/pseuds/turtle_paced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two suitors, one duty, no choices. Catelyn Tully and the men she never chose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brandon

**Author's Note:**

> This one's been in the works for a while, and I decided what the hell, might as well post it. Your content notes are for mentions of rape and forced abortion, both taking place offscreen.

It was arranged when Catelyn was twelve, almost a year before she flowered. That was young for a betrothal, but not too young, and the first she knew what might be coming was when her father summoned her to his solar one afternoon.

“Have you done anything bad?” Lysa asked her.

“No,” Catelyn said. “Nothing _that_ bad.” She’d skipped a singing lesson to go swimming the week before, and Septa Symone had scolded her afterwards. Even when Catelyn short-blanketed Lysa’s bed every day for a fortnight, her father hadn’t summoned her to his solar. So she couldn’t imagine what she had done for Father to need to speak with her in his solar.

Catelyn made sure that her hair was neatly braided and her dress was clean, and went up to see her father. 

“My Cat,” her father said with a smile. “My dear, dear Cat. There will soon be another suitor for you in Riverrun. A very important suitor.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. There had been several men visiting Riverrun asking for her hand over the past two years or so, but none her father had called her to his solar to discuss. “May I ask who, Father?” She quickly prayed to the Maiden that it would not be a Frey.

“Yes, you may,” he said. “If all goes well, you will be wed, after all, you must know who he is. Rickard Stark has agreed to consider you as a wife for his heir, Brandon. Brandon is three or four years older than you, a man grown already, or close enough.” 

Catelyn frowned. “Do you want me to be wed soon, then?” she asked. She did not think she wanted to leave Riverrun. Not now. She wasn’t ready yet.

“If we come to an agreement, you will not be wed until you are a woman grown yourself. When you are sixteen, I think. That was the age your lady mother was when we wed, and a far better age for such things than twelve, dear one.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “I am not willing to part with you so quickly.”

Catelyn could feel herself colouring. A compliment from her father and a mention of her lady mother were both rare things from him. “Do you know what he’s like?” she asked, trying her best to be the proper lady Father always said she could be. Even if she wasn’t ready to leave Riverrun, she was going to be _married_.

Besides, she had never met anyone from the North before. Already she was imagining a tall man, the size of a bear, with a beard all the way down to his chest. But Brandon Stark was sixteen, so that was silly. His beard probably only just covered his chin. Lord Rickard would be the one who looked like a bear.

“No, but you will soon find out,” her father said. “Lord Rickard will be coming here in two moons, to give you and Brandon a chance to meet.” A trace of sternness crept into his voice. “The Starks are an old and powerful family. Lord Rickard is a formidable man. This is an excellent match. You must be at your best.”

“I will, Father,” she promised. 

“I have no doubt,” he said, and smiled at her again. “I have no doubt about you at all, my little Cat.” 

When she returned to where Lysa was playing, her sister asked, “What was _that_ about?” 

“Father’s arranging a marriage for me,” Catelyn said, feeling rather unsettled, pleased and excited and afraid all at once. “To Lord Stark’s heir Brandon.” 

“ _Stark_?” Lysa repeated, wrinkling her nose. “He wants you to marry a northerner? Septa says they don’t even worship the Seven.” 

Her father wouldn’t marry her off to anyone who would _force_ her to stop worshiping the Seven. Surely there had to be a sept somewhere in the North. “The old gods,” Catelyn remembered. “Northerners worship the old gods. Like the Blackwoods do.” 

“And all their keeps are made of ice!”

“That’s the _Wall_ , silly,” Catelyn said scornfully. “Northerners build with stone and wood like the rest of us.”

“That’s boring,” Lysa said. “So will you be getting married soon, then? Is he handsome?”

“Father says not for a few years. I don’t know if he’s handsome.” She hoped so. If she had to marry him, she hoped he at least looked nice. There were a lot of songs where the lady was married off to an ugly man. And a lot of songs where the lady was married off to a cruel man, but Catelyn was less worried about that. If Brandon Stark were a cruel person, her father would not go through with the arrangement, no matter what the Starks said. “It will be a good match,” she said. “I’m very grateful.” 

“You’ll be the Lady of Winterfell.” 

“Yes,” Catelyn said aloud. “I suppose I might be.” Lady of one of the oldest, greatest keeps in all of Westeros. Wife to one Warden of the North, and in time, mother to another. It was a _very_ good match. Catelyn wondered why she would have the honour, and not the daughter of a Stark bannerman. She had always assumed that she would be wed to one of Father’s bannermen herself. 

“Lady Catelyn Stark.” Lysa giggled. “Do you like it?”

 _Lady Catelyn Tully Stark. Lady Stark, of Winterfell._ Catelyn didn’t know if she liked it. It was a cold-sounding name, but it was the name and title that Father said could be hers. “I’ll have to get used to it,” she said practically, not much wanting to discuss it any more.

Lysa, however, wasn’t done with her interrogation. “Are you going to meet him before you wed?” 

“They’re coming here in two moons,” she said. “The Starks. Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon.” The thought made her uneasy; saying it aloud more so. More real. She knew she would be married off one day. She had even known that her father must start seriously considering arrangements soon. So why did the prospect of meeting her potential betrothed suddenly frighten her so?

“Petyr won’t be home by then, will he?” Lysa asked, disappointed. 

“It’s probably for the best,” Catelyn said. Petyr might have made her feel better about all this. He was clever – not always sensible, but clever. He would know something to do. “His lady mother is ill, remember?” Ill and expected to die. Lord Baelish had written Catelyn’s father asking if his son could come home for a few months, and if he would be welcome back after his mother passed away. 

After that the conversation drifted to Lysa’s new doll, and Catelyn put the whole matter out of her mind. For the moment.

 

\---

 

The day the Starks were coming to Riverrun arrived more quickly than Catelyn might have liked. The last weeks before their arrival positively flew by as Catelyn tried to prepare herself and the household, on her father’s request.

Lord Hoster had decreed that Catelyn should have new gowns. Much as she liked pretty gowns, the fittings quickly grew embarrassing. “Honestly, my lady, you’ve chosen an inconvenient time to start developing your bosom,” the matronly seamstress sighed. “These gowns won’t fit you in a few months.”

“Perhaps they’ll fit Lysa,” Catelyn said with a frown and a blush. (Her septa said she would grow out of blushing eventually, and the day could not come soon enough for her liking.) Lysa had been seething with jealousy since she saw the first bolt of blue silk. There was to be only one new gown for her. 

Catelyn hadn’t told her sister that Father had told her she could have her pick of her lady mother’s jewels to wear. “Don’t get carried away,” he had warned her, a smile in his eyes. “Lord Rickard won’t be impressed if you greet his son with half of Casterly Rock’s gold draped around your neck.”

“I’ll be careful,” Catelyn had promised. Her septa had told her something similar before – that heavy bracelets and necklaces would make her wrists and neck look scrawny, and big jewels distract from her face. “Modest jewels only, Father, I promise.”

Then there were the feasts. Her father had left them almost entirely in her hands. She knew what to do, she had helped arrange feasts for his bannermen before, but this was different. This might be her husband and her goodfather. There was a fluttering in her stomach as she decided on the food she would have served.

When they were finally told of the Starks’ approach, Catelyn put on the new gown that showed a hint of her developing breasts and picked out a blue topaz pendant on a slim silver chain, and went out to meet them.

Her first thought was that Rickard Stark was shorter than she’d expected. Bearded and stern, yes, just not very tall.

Then she saw Brandon, and her first thought about _him_ was that he was very handsome. His hair was dark brown and his face was all severe lines, but he looked at her and smiled and it was like the sun coming out. He looked very dashing in his white-and-grey, too. Not even the pimples near his hairline (not many, really) could spoil his looks. Catelyn cast her eyes to the ground as she felt a flush climb in her cheeks.

“My eldest daughter, Catelyn,” she heard her father say, and on cue she curtsied deeply.

“My lords,” she murmured, feeling sudden butterflies in her stomach and not entirely trusting her voice. “It is my honour to meet you both.” She forced herself to meet Brandon’s eyes. They were grey – the colour of the direwolf emblazoned on his doublet, the colour of winter storm clouds. 

He smiled at her, and Catelyn felt her cheeks heat further. But she kept her composure, as she had been taught to do.

“My lady,” Brandon replied, a beat after his father did. Gods, even his voice was handsome. 

She stayed dutifully on her father’s arm, determined not to show the slightest hint of impropriety. After all, she wanted Brandon – and Lord Rickard, of course, the decision was his – to think well of her. 

To her disappointment, Brandon spent most of his time at the feast that evening talking to her Uncle Brynden. The War of the Ninepenny Kings was all anyone ever wanted to talk to him about, but if Catelyn was being fair, Uncle Brynden _did_ have a lot of good stories. “He’ll talk to you later, Cat,” her uncle whispered to her as he passed her seat. “He’s not much more than a boy.”

Catelyn glanced over at Brandon at that. Her possibly-to-be-betrothed looked like a man grown to _her_.

“Just a boy,” Uncle Brynden repeated with a smile, and continued on his way.

At the centre of the table, her father and Lord Rickard were talking like old friends. That seemed like a good sign. Lord Rickard even laughed once. Catelyn kept still and smiling. _Notice me_ , she thought at Brandon, as hard as she could. _Notice me!_ To no avail. Brandon said hardly ten words to her together.

When the feast ended, she left on her father’s arm, as she had arrived. “What did you think of him?” Lord Hoster asked her. 

Catelyn blushed for what felt like the hundredth time since she _heard_ of Brandon Stark, and her father chuckled. “That’s the way of it, is it?” he asked. “I’ll be sure to tell Rickard on the morrow. He and I were both fortunate enough to wed women we could love, and he no doubt would like that for Brandon, if he can get it.”

“He barely spoke to me, though,” Catelyn said. “What if he doesn’t like me?” 

“He will learn to,” he assured her. “You will spend some time together tomorrow, without the distraction of your uncle.”

“Thank you, father,” Catelyn said.

Lord Hoster halted then. “Just remember, Cat, keep a tight rein on your tongue. I know what you think of my bannermen, and you do me proud, but Brandon Stark might not be so interested.” He sighed. “I’ve done my best to raise you, my dear, but I fear I have not given you an upbringing appropriate to a lady of your station. I’ve treated you more as a son than a daughter, given you perhaps too much independence, and now I must needs see you wed.” 

He started walking again, not looking at her. “I would see you Lady of Winterfell. That is the sort of marriage a daughter of House Tully deserves. Brandon Stark will learn to love you in time, and it would be best if you could continue to feel goodly towards him too. The match will serve both our families well.”

“It’s not a problem, father,” Catelyn said. “I like Brandon.”

 

\---

 

When Brandon knocked on the door of her embroidery lesson the next day and asked Septa Symone if Catelyn could possibly be spared to show him around Riverrun’s godswood, Catelyn pretended to be surprised.

“Of course, my lord,” Catelyn said, carefully casting her eyes back to the floor, so she would not look too bold. It didn’t stop her from noticing Lysa’s murderous expression. “It would be my pleasure.”

Walking on Brandon’s arm was different to walking on her father’s arm, or her uncle’s. Brandon was shorter than either, and not so broad. This close, she could tell that he smelled different too.

“Was that your sister?” Brandon asked after a few seconds of awkward silence. “Lysa, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Lysa.”

Brandon shook his head. “She has almost as good a glare as _my_ sister.”

“Your sister, my lord?” 

“Lyanna. She’d be of an age with your sister, my lady.” He smiled. “Lyanna and Lysa. I wonder if they’d get along.”

“Perhaps,” Catelyn said. “Lysa doesn’t often say no to more playmates.”

The conversation stalled again. “Do you have any more brothers or sisters, my lord?” Catelyn asked, as they approached the godswood. 

“Two brothers,” Brandon said. “Eddard and Benjen. Ned – Eddard – is fostered in the Vale with Jon Arryn. Ben’s still at home.” 

“It must be a great honour for your house to have a son fostered at the Vale,” Catelyn ventured. 

“Not as great an honour as being wed to you might be,” Brandon replied with a grin.

Catelyn felt butterflies in her stomach again, and slightly weak at the knees. “It’s very kind of you to say that, my lord,” she managed. “The godswood, my lord. I hope it is to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be.” But for a few long seconds, Brandon did not look at the trees. “It’s very different to Winterfell’s,” he said, when he did turn away from her. “Very different. More like a garden. Come, my lady, will you show me your favourite place to walk here?”

They walked arm in arm for more than an hour, the conversation between them growing easier by the minute. Brandon truly was charming. And handsome. Very handsome. Marrying him would not be unpleasant, she decided. She could see herself as his wife.

When they parted, he presented her with a rose he’d sneakily cut from her favourite bush, petals a pink so pale they were almost white. “As fair as you are, my lady,” Brandon said. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow, my lord.”

This time, she raised her eyes to his face. His eyes were still every bit as comely as they had been when she had greeted him the day before – and this time he was looking at _her_. Meeting them almost took her breath away, though to her great relief, she did not flush this time. She did not want him to see her as a little girl. She was the eldest daughter of House Tully and nearly a maiden flowered.

“What did Brandon want?” Lysa asked, when Catelyn returned. She seemed to have recovered from her jealousy only to move into a giggly mood. “Did he give you that flower?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “He just wanted to get to know me a little better, I think.” 

“ _I_ think he’s handsome,” Lysa announced. “Did he kiss you?”

“No!” This time she blushed – and she had been doing so well. Ugh. “We’re not even officially betrothed yet!” And even then she shouldn’t let him kiss her, except perhaps on the cheek. That would be nice.

“Did you _want_ him to kiss you?” Lysa asked.

Catelyn looked around, just to make sure Septa Symone wasn’t in earshot. “Yes,” she whispered. 

Lysa giggled, and Catelyn did too. 

That evening, her father once again called her to his solar. He was smiling broadly. “Cat, you must spare no effort with the feast tomorrow. Whatever you feel is appropriate. The best we have. It’s to be a betrothal feast, my girl.”

“Lord Rickard agreed?” 

“Lord Rickard agreed. You are to be Lady Stark one day. In a long time yet, gods willing, Rickard is hale and hearty still, but one day.”

“Oh,” Catelyn said. “Thank you, father. I’m honoured.”

“You must tell it to Lord Rickard,” her father said. “You made a favourable impression on him yesterday, but you must be certain to shore it up.” 

“If he is to be my goodfather, I can do no less,” said Catelyn. A favourable impression? She had hardly said two words together to the current Lord Stark. He had seemed to enjoy himself at the feast the evening before.

The smile lines at the corners of her father’s eyes deepened. “I tell you, Cat, this is a weight off my mind. I would want nothing less for you, or for your sister. Brandon Stark will make you a fine husband.”

Oh, he would. Catelyn was sure he would.

 

\---

 

It was somewhat awkward, Catelyn decided, arranging her own betrothal feast. It was the sort of task her lady mother should have done for her. There was nobody else to do it, however, so Catelyn took up the task as she always did. Awkward or not.

She had planned a good meal in any case, but now she had to rearrange the seating. She and Brandon would sit together, with Lord Rickard on her other side and her father at Brandon’s, for all of Riverrun to see. Even if her father hadn’t invited his vassals to witness, there would still be a lot of people there. 

Lady Stark. She was to be married to Brandon Stark and tomorrow everyone would know it.

Rickard Stark was not much of a conversationalist, and during the feast itself Catelyn sorely missed Lysa’s company, or Petyr’s, or even her father’s. Brandon was speaking more to Lord Hoster than herself, as he had spoken mostly to her Uncle Brynden the first night.

She could imagine more enjoyable betrothal feasts. It hurt, after he had been so attentive to her in the godswood.

Eventually Lord Rickard turned to her. “I have not had much opportunity to speak to you, Lady Catelyn,” he said. 

Catelyn hesitated only a second before replying, “It is a pity, but we have the opportunity now, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Lord Stark surveyed her critically over his goblet of wine. “The feast tonight was your responsibility, your father tells me.” 

“Yes, my lord. As was the feast the night you arrived. I hope they have pleased you.”

“They have. I take it that this has been your responsibility for some time.”

“Since my lady mother passed away,” Catelyn said, somewhat nervously. The betrothal feast was an odd place for her potential goodfather to interrogate her on her qualities, but perhaps he wished to see how she reacted to pressure. “I fear I am a poor replacement for her, but I have done my best to be of use to my father and our house. As I hope to be for your house, when Lord Brandon and I are wed. My lord.” 

“I am pleased to hear it,” Lord Rickard said. “Your father said as much of you. My own lady wife died some years ago, and Winterfell has been lacking a lady ever since.”

“Brandon has told me of his sister,” Catelyn replied.

The comment drew the tiniest of smiles from Lord Rickard. “Lyanna, yes. My daughter is the apple of her brother’s eye.”

“Which brother?” Brandon? Catelyn did not relish the thought of competing with Lady Lyanna for her brother’s respect. All manner of things would be more difficult if she and Lyanna did not end up liking each other. For a few years, at least, until Lyanna herself married.

“Any and all of them.” And her father’s treasure too, Catelyn saw. Nothing else had made Lord Rickard smile. “She can persuade even Ned to join her in her escapades. I despair of her frequently. She has not a shred of interest in taking up her mother’s responsibilities and keeps little female company. I would introduce you to her if I could. Perhaps after you and Brandon are wed you can set a better example for her than she has had, before she herself is wed.”

“If you think it necessary, my lord,” Catelyn said. In her mind’s eye she could see a girl Lysa’s age, dark hair uncombed and grey dress torn. “If Lady Lyanna is to be my goodsister I should like to know her better. I would like to be on good terms with all of Brandon’s family, if I can.”

Lord Rickard looked back at his food. “You will make a fine wife for my Brandon, I think.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Any further conversation was interrupted by Lord Hoster rising to his feet. “You may all have guessed what we are celebrating here today,” he shouted to the hall. “And why Lord Stark and his son sit on either side of my daughter tonight. My friends, tonight we celebrate the betrothal of Lord Brandon to my dear Catelyn! A toast to them, and to the ties of friendship between House Tully and House Stark, soon to be ties of marriage!”

A cheer went up in the hall, accompanied by a lot of wine. Catelyn snuck a glance at Brandon, who was also drinking deeply. They had been served their wine un-watered, a first for Catelyn. Brandon, on the other hand, drank as though he’d been served strong wine since the day he was born. He was getting rather red in the face. 

When Lord Hoster sat, Lord Rickard rose. “It is our honour to accept this betrothal,” he announced. “House Stark is only to pleased to have the friendship of the noble Tullys. May our alliance be long and fruitful.” 

There was more cheering and drinking at that statement. Even Catelyn drained her goblet, and felt dizzy for it. It was a good evening, she decided. This was a good thing.

 

\---

 

The Starks departed Riverrun a fortnight later. Catelyn’s father insisted they stay long enough to make their long journey worthwhile.

“I’m grateful,” Brandon said to her during one of their walks in the godswood, the day before he was to leave. “It’s a long boring trip. You probably won’t enjoy it, my lady.”

He meant that she wouldn’t enjoy the trip back to Winterfell after she and Brandon were married. After their wedding. It was going to happen. “I have travelled before, my lord, with my father,” she replied. “As far as Seagard.”

Brandon laughed. “It’s three times as far from here to Winterfell as it is to Seagard. We’ll have to go through the Neck. I hope you like fens, my lady, and lizard-lions.”

“I would like to see one,” Catelyn said. She had seen a picture once in one of her father’s books. “And I’m not worried about the fens.” More the cold. She had lived through two winters, though she could only remember the one. The snow had been pretty, but the frost and slush unpleasant. 

Brandon looked away, and the conversation petered out. Try as she might, Catelyn couldn’t keep his interest for long. 

She had been supposed to squeal at the thought of lizard-lions, she decided, lying awake in her bed that night trying to work out what went wrong. Too late now. 

Septa Symone said it was only natural that a man grown like Brandon would find it difficult to talk to a girl not even flowered. “From what I’ve seen, men have enough difficulty speaking to women as it is, my dear,” Septa had said. “It is yours to be patient and kind when he does come to you for advice. You are to be Lord Brandon’s lady wife, not his friend.”

In the morning, Catelyn put on a fine forest green gown and went to say farewell to her betrothed. Eyes down, voice soft. She remembered. The whole household was there, equally well turned out. Even Edmure had been dressed nicely, though Catelyn’s brother was still yawning. 

“Have a safe trip back,” Lord Hoster said. “We will see you again in a few years.” 

“In a few years,” Lord Rickard agreed. “This has been well done. You have a fine daughter.”

“And you a fine son.”

Brandon stepped forward and took Catelyn’s hand, raising it to his mouth to brush it with a quick kiss. Catelyn could feel herself colouring again in a way that probably clashed horribly with her dress. When he released her, she curtsied in return.

“You did do well,” Lord Hoster said to her as they watched the Starks leave Riverrun. “I hope you like him, little Cat, because Brandon Stark is all yours.” 

“I still like him, father,” Catelyn reassured him, and won a smile. 

When she went to the sept that afternoon, she said as much again. “I do like Brandon,” she confided to the Maiden. “I do. He’s handsome, and he seems kind enough. Any woman would be honoured to be his wife.” She looked over to the Mother, and missed her own more than she had since Minisa Tully had died. “But I love Father and Lysa and Edmure too. I don’t want to leave them yet.” 

Now that Brandon had left it was hard to keep thinking of him. Her family was _right there_ , and Brandon was a long way away.

She stayed on her knees for a time. “Can you help me love Brandon as much as I love my family?” she asked the Maiden at last. “I don’t want to hate him. I don’t want to be scared of leaving.”

“I am grateful to my father for this,” she added, before she left. Just in case the gods thought she wasn’t. “I _am_.”

 

\---

 

A month later, Petyr returned. He was maybe a little taller than he had been when he left. He was, however, skinnier than ever. He still looked younger than Lysa did. 

Catelyn smiled when she saw him, and Lysa hanging off his arm, where she’d been since she’d run to the gates to greet him. “I’m so glad you’re back, Petyr. How is your mother?”

“Dead,” Petyr said. 

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn said, abashed. “Oh, Petyr, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” 

The words shocked both Catelyn and Lysa. “She’s your _mother_ ,” Lysa said. “You have to be sorry.”

“She was sick,” Petyr said. “She’d been sick for years. All she could do was lie in bed and cough. It’s like she was never even really alive. This way, she’s not sick anymore.”

“The Seven will look after her,” Catelyn said. “Remember what the septon always tells us. The Stranger is not unkind. The Stranger does not hurt those he takes.”

Lysa nodded, but Petyr didn’t seem convinced. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s been a few weeks. And now I’m back. You make everything better, Cat.”

“What about me?” Lysa demanded instantly. “Do I make you feel better too?”

“Of course you do!” He smiled at her, then turned back to Catelyn. “Lysa says I missed some visitors.”

“Lord Rickard Stark and his heir,” Catelyn said. “There were a few feasts.”

“Catelyn’s been mooning over Brandon Stark,” Lysa declared. “She’s been very boring.” 

“I have not been _mooning_.” 

“You have too been mooning,” her sister retorted. "I don't think Brandon likes me. What if Brandon doesn't like me? I'm going for a walk with Brandon tomorrow, what gown should I wear? Brandon, Brandon, Brandon." To Petyr, she said, “Brandon’s sixteen and handsome and Cat wanted him to kiss her.” 

“Lysa! You weren’t supposed to tell anyone!” She should have known better than to tell her sister anything. She'd probably told Edmure too. Or worse, their septa. Then again, Lysa couldn't have told their septa, because Catelyn hadn't received any extra lectures on the dangers of young men and kissing. That was a relief.

Now Petyr was grinning, though Catelyn thought it didn't quite reach his eyes. “So you _did_ want him to kiss you? What would your father think?”

“They’re betrothed,” Lysa said. “Father probably wouldn’t care.” 

“Yes he would,” Catelyn contradicted her. “We’re not married yet. It wouldn’t be proper for Brandon to kiss me." 

“When’s the wedding?” Petyr asked, no longer smiling. “Will it be soon?”

Catelyn shook her head. “Father says no. Not until I’m sixteen at least. Lord Stark agreed.”

“That’s all right then,” Petyr said. “You don’t have to worry for a long time. It might not happen at all.”

“I’m not worried,” Catelyn lied.


	2. Petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good solid weekend of writing has chapter two ready to post earlier than anticipated. That, and this chapter was just fun to write.

It was true that the Blackwoods and the Brackens could never get along, but there was usually some entertainment to be had out of their disputes. Often it was one of her father’s lengthy tirades on their childishness, which Catelyn was lucky enough to witness in the privacy of his solar. This time, however, Lord Bracken had brought a singer. 

“Did you see?” Lysa whispered. “Did you _see_?”

“Yes, I saw,” Catelyn said with a frown, looking over Lord Bracken’s retinue. It was a big one, decked out in bright colours as though for a fair. “Does he think Father will take his side if he provides us with a party?” 

“I don’t care,” Lysa said.

“It must have cost him a good deal of coin.”

“For the chance to sing here?”

“We have singers here all the time.” Mostly thanks to Lysa herself. Catelyn’s sister loved singers. Edmure, too, was quite fond of the entertainment. “Half the singers in Westeros must have visited us by now.”

Lysa ignored the comment and cast a critical eye over the young man with the harp. “He’s not so good looking as the last one,” she decided. “His ears are too big, and his eyes look watery.”

“His legs aren’t so bad though,” Catelyn said. There was something to be said for men wearing tight hose.

An hour or so later, Littlefinger appeared at her elbow as she was preparing for the feast, checking on their stores of candles. “What’s the verdict on the singer?” he asked her.

Petyr was just starting to come into his growth, now, but only somewhat. Somewhat, because it was clear that he would never be a big man. It was likely that he would never be taller than Catelyn, and probably only just taller than Lysa. The changes near-adulthood brought, however, meant that his grin no longer looked like it would stretch off his face. And he was smiling now.

“His ears are too big and his eyes too watery,” Catelyn reported. 

“And his voice?”

“We’ll find out tonight, I expect.”

“Bracken’s guardsmen say the singer’s better than most,” Petyr said. Of course he’d gone looking for gossip. It was usually the very first thing he did when there were guests in Riverrun. 

Catelyn finished her inventory and said, “Of course they’d say that. Who would want to admit to bringing a bad singer to their liege lord’s castle?” 

“Guardsmen,” Petyr said, following her. “You’d be surprised what they’ll say when they don’t think their every word is going back to their liege lord’s beautiful daughter.”

“All sorts of things, I expect,” Catelyn said tartly. “What I don’t expect is that you passed on their every word.” 

Petyr grinned again. “It’s true. I haven’t.”

Their path took them back to Riverrun’s hall, where servants were bringing in tables and laying down fresh rushes. “Are you enjoying making seating arrangements?” Petyr asked. 

The thought was enough to give Catelyn a headache, and she rubbed briefly at her temples. “No. The last time both Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood were here, my lady mother did this. Father would not thank me if I made a mistake here.” 

“You can hardly make their feud worse than it already is,” Petyr said.

“I’m not so sure of that.”

She had to seat the Blackwood and Bracken men as far away from each other as possible, using her father’s men as a buffer between them. It was _not_ possible to separate the Lords Bracken and Blackwood, since they would both expect to be seated in places of high honour. That meant sitting them on either side of Lord Hoster. 

Her father had an unenviable evening in front of him, that was for sure.

 

\---

 

Lord Blackwood’s contribution to the feast was mostly from his own larders. Lord Bracken had brought a singer; Lord Blackwood had brought a cook. Sitting at one end of the high table, Catelyn, Lysa, Petyr and Edmure sampled dishes spiced more exotically than they’d ever had at one meal. 

The singer wasn’t that bad. Lord Bracken’s guardsmen had told Petyr true. He sang with more energy than Catelyn had expected, and soon the floor was cleared for dancing.

“Would my lady honour me with a dance?” Petyr asked once he saw what was happening.

“Why ever not?” Catelyn offered him her hand with a smile and followed him to the floor. Even if he was shorter than she was, he was a good dancer, with sure hands and light feet. And he was good company, whispering pointed observations about their visitors as they danced. She danced three dances with him in a row, she was having so much fun. 

But there was trouble brewing, Catelyn realized as she returned to her seat, breathless with laughter and exertion. The lords Bracken and Blackwood were leaning towards each other, almost over Catelyn’s father, and starting to argue bitterly. With Brackens and Blackwoods, there was no other way to argue. As she passed them, she heard the words “ignorant pig” and “vicious liar” exchanged. 

“My lords,” Hoster Tully said in a very cool voice, “perhaps we should adjourn to my solar to discuss this matter. Feasts such as these should not be spoiled by quarrels.” 

With that he stood, and left Blackwood and Bracken little choice but to follow him.

Petyr sat down next to Catelyn and poured her wine. It was full strength, a heady Dornish red. “Thank you,” she said, and drank deeply.

“Me too!” said Lysa, thrusting her own goblet forward to Petyr. “I want some too!”

“Why ever not?” Petyr echoed Catelyn’s words from earlier and poured Lysa wine too.

Then Edmure said, “Me as well!” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Catelyn said.

“Who’s to stop us?” Petyr replied.

Catelyn relented. It was a feast. “Just the one, Edmure. It’s not watered.” 

With Edmure’s wine poured, Petyr turned again to Catelyn. “When you have recovered…perhaps another dance?” 

“I can’t dance only with you,” Catelyn smiled. “Dance with Lysa now, and I’ll save my legs for later.”

Lysa, for one, needed no more encouragement. She took Petyr by the hand and practically dragged him into the dance. “I’ll dance with you,” she said. “Come on!”

“All right, all right,” Petyr said, laughing, and let her. 

Catelyn followed. It wasn’t hard to find a new partner, and another after that, and another after that. All she had to do was be careful to dance with the same number of Blackwood men as Bracken men. That wasn’t so hard.

After a while she found herself dancing with Petyr again. Two full goblets of unwatered wine later, he wasn’t so graceful as he had been earlier in the evening, but neither was she. It was still fun. “You said you’d save your legs,” he shouted over the music.

“I have!” she shouted back. Tonight Catelyn felt like she could dance longer than anyone.

In the end she danced another two times with Petyr – six in total, she’d never danced so many dances with the one man, ever – before they retired to the table, exhausted. Lysa was there still. Edmure was giggling in his chair, as red in the face as Catelyn and Petyr were, but without even half the physical exertion. 

“He’s had too much to drink,” Catelyn said when she realised. “I shouldn’t have let him.” 

“You were enjoying yourself,” Petyr said. “We both were. Who knows? This may teach him a little something about overindulging.”

Catelyn hesitated. “It’s too late now. We’ll have to get him to bed.” 

“Later,” Petyr said. He leaned in, close enough that Catelyn could smell the wine on his breath. “You’re beautiful, Cat. So beautiful.” Then Petyr tried to kiss her.

Catelyn laughed and pushed him away. “I think you’ve had a bit much to drink too,” she said. She was a bit tipsy as well, she could feel it. “Time for us all to sober up. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Petyr.” 

She gathered up Edmure as she left and helped him out, since her brother wasn’t able to walk in a straight line. They’d all be hearing about this from Lord Hoster tomorrow morning. She paused as she passed her uncle Brynden. 

“I’ll take care of Lysa and your little friend,” her uncle said, before Catelyn could even ask. “Don’t worry, Cat, just get yourself and Edmure to bed. I won’t let your father find them dead drunk at table.”

Catelyn turned back to look at her sister and her friend. Petyr was drinking again, and he met her eyes briefly before he took another deep drink from his goblet. However much wine he’d had, it was clearly too much already. Her father would be furious if he found Petyr like that, and angrier still if he found Lysa drinking too. “Thank you, uncle,” she said gratefully.

“Go to bed, Cat,” he replied.

She hurried from the hall with her brother, and left Lysa and Petyr to look after themselves.

 

\---

 

The next morning Catelyn went to break her fast, feeling slightly ill from the previous night’s wine, and walked straight into her father’s chilly gaze. “I’m told you and your siblings drank all night,” he said. “I expected better of you.”

“I’m sorry, father.”

“You, at least, do not look too much the worse for wear. Lysa and Edmure are still abed." 

“And Petyr?”

“Also abed. And fortunate that I did not see him passed out at table in front of our guests.” Lord Hoster scowled. “I am told my brother had something to do with that.”

“Oh, please, father, don’t blame Uncle Brynden for this. I asked him to look after Lysa and Petyr.”

“I don’t,” her father said frostily. “On the contrary, I’m glad that _someone_ in this family was behaving in a manner befitting their station.”

Catelyn looked down. “I truly am sorry, father. It won’t happen again.”

Lord Hoster reached out and tilted Catelyn’s chin up. “I’m not so disappointed in you as I am in your brother and sister. But I do expect you to keep better track of them when I am unable to. You will likely be wed within the next year, Cat, and the lady of a great castle, without me or your uncle to help you. Perhaps with a child of your own. You must know what is proper, and teach it to your own children.” 

Catelyn didn’t move, didn’t blink. “I know, father.”

“Good.” He sighed. “Lessons for you all today, and I think another reminder from the septon about indulgences.” 

“Yes, father.”

“And I will send a raven to Lord Stark today. I think it’s about time we discussed the wedding.”

The words made Catelyn’s heart leap in her chest. It _was_ about time. Past the time her father and Brandon’s had initially agreed upon, as Catelyn was already past sixteen. She had not seen her betrothed since she was twelve – a little girl, she knew that now. She wanted to meet him as a woman grown.

“There is to be a great tourney at Harrenhal in a few moons’ time,” her father continued. “It is doubtful that there will be time for you to wed Brandon before then, but I would be pleased for you two to reacquaint yourselves there. It would be a perfect time to discuss the arrangements.” 

“A tourney?” Catelyn smiled. A tourney with Brandon. “That sounds like a fine idea to me.”

Her father smiled back at her. “I’m glad you agree, little Cat.”

She did not see either of her siblings or Petyr until well after the midday meal. Unsurprisingly, Edmure looked distinctly ill. Catelyn felt bad for him, even more because she ran across him being lectured by the septon.

Petyr, on the other hand, she found doing his lessons quite happily. He winced as he moved his head and his eyes were horribly bloodshot, but he still had a smile on his face. “Cat. How are you feeling?” 

“I should be asking you that,” she said. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” Petyr confessed. “It’s like having nails in my skull. But I had a good time last night anyway.”

“Has my father already lectured you?”

“For about half an hour. It was worth every minute.” 

“It might have been a bit too much wine for me,” Catelyn said. “I don’t think I’ll do it again. I’m glad I danced with you though.”

“Honestly? It was the best night of my life.”

Catelyn laughed again. Petyr flinched at the noise – it looked like it had worsened his headache – but his smile did not fade. “I’m not that good a dancer,” she said, and left him to his sums.

Finally, she found Lysa, who had been sentenced to Septa Symone’s tender mercies. Septa had Catelyn’s sister practicing writing, Lysa’s least favourite art. Lysa’s writing looped madly around the page, lines listing at an angle, hardly legible. It took Catelyn a minute to recognize it as a passage from Septon Willem’s _Virtues of the Maid_.

“What do you want?” Lysa snapped, punctuating a sentence with a stab of her quill. 

“I just wanted to see if you were feeling well,” Catelyn said. “Did Uncle look after you last night?”

Lysa scowled. She’d inherited the expression from their father, or perhaps learned it from him. “Yes. It didn’t stop Father from making me do this. _And_ I have a headache, _and_ Father says that the singer is not to perform this evening.”

“He will need to rest his voice. There’ll be other singers,” Catelyn said. “They might even be more handsome than this one. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?” In truth Lysa really shouldn’t moon over singers as she did. It wasn’t very seemly. But writing practice was dull, and _Virtues of the Maid_ was worse. Catelyn felt sorry for her sister. “And Father says there’ll be a tourney in a few moons. He’ll probably send you.” 

“A tourney?” Lysa’s eyes lit up. “Where?”

“Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal’s so dreary though. Couldn’t it have been here? Father hasn’t hosted a tourney in years. Or even Lannisport! Lord Lannister could afford it. Or maybe – “

“It’s at Harrenhal,” Catelyn interrupted. “I think it’s all been arranged.” There was something else that might cheer Lysa up. “Jaime Lannister should be there.”

The words did not have the effect Catelyn had anticipated. When Jaime Lannister had visited them last, Lysa had blushed and giggled her way through every interaction with him, much as Catelyn had with Brandon, that first meeting. Jaime Lannister, for his part, had done much as Brandon had done and grilled Uncle Brynden on every detail from the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Now, she just sighed and looked away.

“You might be betrothed to him soon,” Catelyn said, puzzled. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked him.”

“He’s very handsome,” Lysa said. That was only so obvious. Catelyn had seen Jaime Lannister; there was no denying that he was a good-looking young man. Beautiful, really, as his twin sister was supposed to be beautiful. Catelyn could admit his attractiveness, though she was not especially partial to blond men. 

“He seemed nice enough,” Catelyn said. “I didn’t think you had any objections. If you marry him, you’ll definitely get to see Lannisport. You could be the lady of Casterly Rock itself.”

“I know.” Lysa sighed again and swirled her quill in a stray drop of ink. She looked around to see if anyone else was nearby, especially their septa. “I like someone else better.” 

“Oh, Lysa.” Catelyn sat down next to her sister. “You know what Father plans for you! We don’t get to choose who we wed.”

“It’s all right for you,” Lysa said. “You love Brandon. You always have. What if you found someone you loved more than him? Would you marry Brandon then?” 

“Yes,” Catelyn said. She had no doubt. She would do it. Family, duty, honour – Father had taught her those things well enough that she would not refuse. Besides, Father would not wed either to a man he knew they would hate. He loved her, and he loved Lysa. He wanted them looked after and married well.

But Lysa just scoffed.

A raven came from the Starks saying that Brandon would ride down to Riverrun before the Harrenhal tourney, to spend some time with Catelyn. Just him and a few men, no family. Catelyn would have time to get to know the rest of the Starks after the wedding. 

She would also have the time to get to know Brandon himself. Catelyn wasn’t a little girl anymore, and Brandon too would be more mature than he had been last he visited.

Not long before Brandon and his friends arrived, a raven from Lord Tywin came confirming what Lysa had feared: she was to wed Jaime Lannister. Not for another two years or thereabouts, but their fathers had agreed to the match.

The night that raven came, in the privacy of their room, Lysa whispered, “I don’t want to marry Jaime Lannister. I don’t.”

“You get used to it,” Catelyn whispered back. “I don’t love Brandon. Not like you said I do. I hardly know him. But I think he’s someone I can live with. I think I can learn to love him. In time.” 

“I’m not sure I can,” Lysa said. “I don’t know.” 

Catelyn had no idea what to say to make Lysa feel better. Or if there even _was_ something she could say to help. _It’s our duty_ , she thought helplessly, as she listened to Lysa stifle a few sobs. _What else can we do?_

\---

 

Despite herself, the imminent arrival of Brandon Stark distracted her from her sister’s woes. Brandon Stark, her Brandon. She might not be in love with him (yet), but she nevertheless felt quite possessive of him. He was to be _her_ husband, after all.

He rode in in a dramatic fashion, galloping full tilt across the drawbridge and reining up in a swirl of grey cloak, followed by his men. “Lord Tully!” he called from atop his horse. His voice was much as Catelyn recalled it, but smoother, past all memory of breaking. She was also pleased that she had not misremembered his summer-bright smile. “Lady Catelyn!” 

“Lord Brandon,” Hoster Tully said. “It’s been a few years. Welcome back to Riverrun.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord.” He dismounted gracefully. “I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to see my lady again.”

Catelyn smiled back at him.

Brandon introduced his squire, and then brought forth Jeffory Mallister to greet them – Catelyn hadn’t even known the two were acquainted. Her father’s reaction told her he felt that this was a good thing. 

As they walked into the hall, Brandon offered Catelyn his arm. With a nod of approval from her father, Catelyn took it and entered at her betrothed’s side rather than her father’s.

“Do you plan to compete in the tourney at Harrenhal?” Catelyn asked. From down the table Petyr kept glancing at her and Brandon oddly. She was trying to ignore him, and focus on the man before her. The one she was to wed. He would not like it if she paid overmuch attention to another man, even one she considered a brother.

“Of course!” He leaned forward eagerly. “I’m only a mediocre jouster, but the melee is always good fun.”

“So you enjoy the sword, Lord Brandon?” 

“Best of all the weapons,” Brandon said. His grin was positively wolfish. “Feel free to observe my practice at any time, my lady. I may find it inspiring.” 

“I may take you up on that offer,” Catelyn replied. Armour rather spoiled the view, but there was still something to be said for watching handsome young men exercise. Not quite as much as there was to be said for handsome young men wearing tight hose, but something.

“The invitation stands.” 

Brandon laughed, and after a second, Catelyn started laughing with him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Petyr scowling. What _had_ got into him lately? 

Her thoughts were interrupted by Brandon turning to her father. “My father has sent me with one more thing for you, my lord,” he said.

“Oh?”

“A date,” Brandon said. “If it is agreeable to you, Lord Tully, that shall be the date I wed Lady Catelyn.” 

A date. More than anything, even than Brandon’s presence, that made the wedding seem real again. Catelyn had known the day must come. To know what day it would be was different. Brandon named a time moons after the conclusion of the tourney at Harrenhal, allowing plenty of time for his father – and, he said, his sister and his brother Eddard – to make their way to Riverrun to attend as well.

Lord Hoster stood and called for attention. “My friends, good news!” he said to the hall. “There is to be a wedding here soon. The time is fast approaching when House Stark and House Tully shall be joined in marriage!”

A cheer went up and a toast quickly followed, and in amongst all the movement in the hall Catelyn didn’t see it until it was too late. 

Petyr had left his seat and wound his way towards Brandon. He threw a glove on the table in front of him, inches from Lord Hoster’s own hand. “I challenge you to a duel for Lady Catelyn’s hand in marriage,” he said. 

Catelyn gasped, but Brandon laughed. “Go back to your seat, boy,” he said.

“I challenge you to a duel for Lady Catelyn’s hand in marriage,” Petyr repeated.

Lord Hoster’s expression could have been described as stony save for the flush of anger rising in his cheeks.

Catelyn looked between her father, her betrothed, and Petyr, not sure of what to say. “Petyr,” she tried, “you can’t be serious. I’m betrothed to Brandon. I have been for years. This is madness.”

Her words did not touch Petyr. He did not even look at her. Nor did he look at her father. He kept his eyes on Brandon, who was no longer laughing. Instead, he was looking Petyr up and down, taking in his lack of height and his lack of muscle. “Very well,” he said at last and picked up the glove. “Tomorrow morning. Name the place.”

“The lower bailey,” Petyr said. 

“Now leave us,” Lord Hoster said. “Prepare for this – this – _farce_ of a duel. You may visit my armouries, but you are no longer welcome at my table, Petyr Baelish.”

Finally, finally, Petyr bowed and retreated. Catelyn felt ill.

“Please allow my son Edmure to act as your squire,” Lord Hoster was saying. “I know you have a squire, but the insult…that _mine own ward_ would do such a thing…it must needs be repaid. We have an agreement, we will see it upheld.”

“Accepted,” Brandon said. “Ethan will have other opportunities to squire for me. I bear no grudges against you or your family.” _Your ward, on the other hand_ , Catelyn could almost hear him say.

“Catelyn, a word with you in my solar?” her father asked.

“Certainly, father,” Catelyn said. They retired forthwith, Catelyn back on her father’s arm. She could feel how tense he was, and could guess what he wanted to say.

Sure enough, as soon as his solar door was closed, he rounded on her. “Did you know of this?” he asked.

“No, father,” she said. With complete honesty. “I had no idea he would do such a thing. I had no idea he even felt that way about me. I am content with the arrangements you have made for my hand.” 

Lord Hoster snorted with derision. “We can only hope that Brandon Stark is still content with you as well. You are not to see Petyr again.” 

“Father!” she protested, wounded. “If I had suspected for even a second that Petyr felt like this I would have made it all the clearer to him that I am betrothed. I’m as shocked as you are that he would do such a thing, and of course I will not go see him.”

It hurt to say that. She loved Petyr as she loved Edmure. Now he was almost certainly going to get himself killed. She should have liked to say goodbye. 

“All right, all right,” he said. “I believe you, little Cat. Forgive me. None of this is your fault. This, with the news about Jaime Lannister…” At Catelyn’s puzzled look, he explained, “Aerys has appointed him to the Kingsguard.”

Catelyn thought briefly. “But he’s younger than I am!” He could be no more than fifteen – unthinkably young for such a posting.

“It seems to me as if King Aerys wishes to deprive Lord Tywin of his favourite son,” her father said. “Seeing as Ser Jaime’s only brother is a misshapen dwarf. In doing so Aerys has also deprived me of a most advantageous marriage for Lysa.” He sighed. “It’s been a bad evening for marriages.”

“I will do my part to repair the damage,” she assured her father. Lysa would be pleased, though, to be spared the match she did not want. Not that she could say so to her father, and especially not now. “May I be excused?”

 

\---

 

The tight feeling in her stomach did not go away all night. She hadn’t expected it to. In the morning, it was an effort to stand up straight and walk down to the lower bailey.

Brandon was there already, Edmure beside him, kitted out in full armour. He looked very grand. Very imposing. Very dangerous. He was a tall man, muscular, and the armour only added to his bulk. This was madness. She was going to watch Petyr die. 

Before she could go to Brandon’s side, Petyr himself arrived. He looked much less intimidating than Brandon, more than a head shorter, far more slender of build, and armoured only in mail, breastplate and helm, leathers underneath. “Cat,” he said to her, the nickname cutting like a knife, “May I have your favour to wear?” 

“No,” Catelyn said. “No, Petyr, no you cannot. I am betrothed to Lord Brandon.” 

“Cat, please.” He was begging. Catelyn had never seen Petyr beg before. “Please, Cat, I love you. Please.” 

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, though they thankfully did not fall. She did not want her grief to be taken the wrong way. “No,” she told Petyr again, and turned her back. 

It was to Brandon that she went, the favour she had spent the night sewing in her hand. It was not her best work, but she had been embroidering the familiar trout sigil since she was old enough to hold a needle.

Edmure was helping Brandon shed the majority of his armour. Even without the layer of metal, the difference between his physique and Petyr’s was clear and daunting. This duel could only end in his victory. She pressed the handscarf on her betrothed, and said quietly, “He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die.” 

Brandon looked down at her. His eyes were hard and cool as the stones in the river outside. “For your sake, my lady,” he said at last. “I will spare his life, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, my lord.” 

She turned her back on the entire field then, because at last she could not suppress all her tears. She did not want any of them to see her weep – not Brandon, not Petyr, not her father, watching from a distance. The relief was too much. Perhaps she would not see Petyr die after all. 

The duel began and ended in almost the same moment. Their swords crossed but once, Petyr’s knocked aside by Brandon’s superior strength. A second blow landed hard on his left shoulder, and Catelyn knew enough of swordsmanship to know that it would raise a deep bruise. If Petyr lived long enough for it to bruise.

“Yield,” Brandon said, but Petyr just shook his head.

Once more Brandon knocked Petyr’s sword aside, driving him backwards, and drew first blood from a deliberately shallow slash across Petyr’s unprotected legs. “Yield,” Brandon called again, and again Petyr shook his head.

Petyr tried to lunge, but he could not get inside Brandon’s reach. Another blow followed, one to the helm to stun him and then another shallow, deliberately placed wound to the crook of Petyr’s sword arm. 

Brandon drove him all the way across the bailey before he called “Yield!” again, but still Petyr refused. Catelyn could see blood now, in several places on Petyr’s clothes and mail, in drops on the ground. 

The fight went down the water stair then, and there it ended, in the shallow edge of the water. “Yield!” Brandon called again, far more evidence of frustration in his voice than exertion.

And Petyr once more shook his head.

Brandon knocked Petyr’s sword away yet again with a vicious strike, and on the equally savage backhand cut through Petyr’s mail and leather. Petyr dropped his sword entirely, and both hands went to his gut. Already Catelyn could see the bright blood leaking through his fingers, dripping into the river.

“Cat,” Petyr said, his eyes fixed on her.

He fell. Nobody could doubt that this time he would not rise and continue the duel.

She did not dare rush to him, gravely injured as he must be. Surely such a deep blow must have been mortal. Nor could she bring herself to go to Brandon’s side, not when he had broken his promise not to kill Petyr.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Brandon said as he passed her on his way back up the stair. “I took no joy in it. It should never have happened, nor gone as far as it did. Forgive me.”

“You gave him every chance,” Catelyn said. If her voice sounded a bit choked, she doubted any would blame her overmuch. She had never _seen_ so much blood before. She could _smell_ it. “More than most would have. Do not feel badly. There is nothing to forgive.”

Brandon nodded and went on his way.

Catelyn did not know how long she stood there, watching as the maester was brought and bound up Petyr’s wounds. This had all been for her – for her hand in marriage. There was surely something that she ought to do, but she could not think of it. 

For a moment she wished she were Lysa, free to cry out and run to Petyr’s side, to help. Or that she did not care for Petyr at all, and could unreservedly congratulate Brandon on his victory.

But there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all.

 

\---

 

“You may not,” her lord father said.

“But Father – “

“No,” he insisted. “Under no circumstances may you visit him. I forbid it entirely.” 

“All he wanted –“ 

“All he wanted was your hand in marriage, Catelyn! There will be rumours enough from this already. I know well who asked Brandon Stark not to end the duel with one sword thrust through the heart. And I will _not_ have any man say that my daughter had a tryst with my ward just moons before her wedding! Especially not that she nursed him back to health while her betrothed was in this very castle!”

The words made Catelyn feel very small and helpless. “I feel responsible,” she confessed. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“You are not responsible,” her father said. “The world should know that you were not responsible. The only thing you can do is protect your reputation. No, you will not set eyes on Petyr Baelish again if I can help it, and I would be surprised if Lord Brandon allowed you to do so either.” His voice softened ever so slightly. “If you wish to know how he fares, Lysa will no doubt tell you.” 

“What are you going to do with him?” Catelyn asked. It was clear that Petyr could not stay at Riverrun, yet Lysa had told her that the maester said Petyr was not well enough to be moved. 

“Send him home,” Lord Hoster said. “Not immediately, I am not so heartless as that. But as soon as he is strong enough to travel in a litter, in a litter he will go.”

It was no more than Catelyn had expected. It still tugged at her heart. Petyr loathed his home. Angry as she was over his foolishness, she did not want to see him suffer. Or, given that she was barred from seeing him, know that he was suffering.

There was nothing she could do for him regarding his feelings about her impending marriage. Catelyn had never wanted to break hearts, but it seemed she had all the same. 

She visited the sept and prayed for Petyr’s recovery, then went for a walk to try and settle her mind. She passed Brandon in the practice yards and managed to force a smile. He returned it, though she knew not whether it was genuine. 

To her surprise, Catelyn encountered her brother in the godswood, playing at swords with a stick. “What are you doing here?” she asked Edmure. “I thought you were visiting Petyr.”

“Littlefinger won’t see me,” Edmure said. “He sent me away because I was Lord Brandon’s squire for the duel.”

“He sent you away?” Anger bubbled up again through Catelyn’s concern. 

“Father said I had to squire for Brandon,” Edmure said. “I didn’t really want to.” 

“Under the circumstances, you had to,” Catelyn told him. “Father had to show which side House Tully was on in that duel.” And Petyr was clever. Certainly clever enough to understand that much. Yet he sent Edmure away, when Edmure had no more choice in the matter than Catelyn had in marrying Brandon? 

“I know,” Edmure said. “I just wanted to see how he was. But he wouldn’t let me.”

“Father won’t let me see him either,” Catelyn said. “We’ll both have to ask Lysa for news of him, I suppose.” 

Lysa, however, would hardly leave Petyr’s side. Catelyn hardly saw her over the next few days, and when she did, her sister was tired and snappish. “What do you care?” Lysa asked rudely when Catelyn inquired after Petyr’s health. “You’re to marry Brandon Stark, not Petyr.”

Lysa apologized almost immediately for that, but the words still hurt.

It was a fortnight before their father deemed Petyr well enough to be sent home. The maester was uncertain about even that much activity, but Hoster Tully wanted him gone. Nobody was allowed to see him off, but Catelyn and Lysa climbed to the top of the walls anyway to see him go.

Since their father had demanded Petyr be sent away in a closed litter, Petyr wouldn’t even know Catelyn and Lysa were there. Still, Catelyn could not have forgiven herself if she didn’t go. Petyr might have been foolish – extremely foolish – but what he did, he did for love of her.

She knew her father had been right. She could never see him again. 

Brandon departed soon afterwards for the tourney at Harrenhal. Hoster Tully had changed his mind and declined to attend. “I do not care to see Jaime Lannister’s investiture as a knight of the Kingsguard,” he said. Catelyn was not to go, nor Lysa, and certainly not Edmure by himself. It seemed he felt there had been quite enough trouble in the household for the moment. 

“I wish I could go,” Catelyn said to Brandon as he prepared to leave. Matters between them had been somewhat strained since the duel, but they were finally moving past it somewhat. “I had been looking forward to it.” 

“As was I,” Brandon said. “There will be other tourneys. We will attend those together, no doubt.” 

“No doubt,” Catelyn echoed.

Brandon smiled at her and mounted up. He still had her favour, Catelyn noticed. That was a nice gesture. “Wait for me, my lady. We will be wed when I return.” 

That much, at least, was a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to anyone who made it thus far, and double thanks to anyone who left feedback!


	3. Eddard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like leviathan, the monster chapter surfaces from the deeps. Got some more content notes for you. On top of mentions of rape, there's also the background stuff with Lysa, canonical character deaths, Hoster Tully's horrifyingly misguided parenting initiatives, a depiction of a Westerosi bedding ceremony, and non-graphic but mutually unwelcome sex.

Riverrun felt all the emptier now that Petyr was gone, and many of the men to Harrenhal to compete. Catelyn wished she could have attended. She and Lysa would have enjoyed it, she was sure. It would have been good to take her mind off that stupid duel.

It was Lysa who took Petyr’s absence the hardest. She had been absolutely devoted to nursing him back to health, and the maester had praised her attentive care. “She will make a fine mother one day, no doubt,” he said, and Lysa glowed with happiness at the praise. It was the happiest Catelyn saw her sister for several weeks.

“I just wish he could have stayed,” Lysa said. Only in private; it would not do for their father to hear of any such sentiment from them.

Her father was angry all the time these days. At Petyr, for sure, he cursed Petyr’s name. His temper filled all of Riverrun. Lysa and her uncle got the worst of it, but not even Edmure and Catelyn could escape it entirely.

“You know he could not have,” Catelyn replied. She feared that Lysa cared not for that. “Not after what happened. Father _had_ to send him away.” Sometimes she wondered if people of their station ever got to do as they wanted. Betimes it felt as if her life was written out by the obligations of pride.

It didn’t bring much comfort to Lysa. Catelyn wondered briefly if Lysa’s feelings for Petyr had been other than sisterly. If so, she had never said anything of it to Catelyn, and she would have known that any match between them was utterly impossible. After the duel, even more so.

In the end she went to her uncle for advice, though Uncle Brynden had been quarrelling with her father himself about matters neither of them had explained to her. “I just don’t know what to say to her,” Catelyn confessed.

“There’s nothing you can say, Cat, not that I can think of.” He sighed. “I have to leave here myself soon.” 

“What?” Catelyn asked. “Why?”

“Your father,” Brynden said. “He insists that I marry, too.” 

“So you’re _leaving_?” Catelyn didn’t understand. “But –“

“Cat. I do not wish to wed. I’m sure the Redwyne girl your father has picked out for me is a fine girl, but I do not want to marry her. I will _not_ marry her.” He sighed. “It’s different for me. I have my sword and my knighthood to protect me. You and your sister have nothing.”

Uncertain, Catelyn said, “It is how it is.” She didn’t mind having to marry Brandon. Even after all that had happened with Petyr, she could bear it. 

“You’re a strong woman, little Cat,” her uncle said. “But not everyone can be as strong as you are, and not in the same way. I believe that you could be a good lady and a good wife even if you despised your husband. It is not in me to be a good husband to a woman I do not want, and I have the means to refuse and to leave. So that is what I plan to do.”

It was as much of an admission of weakness as Catelyn had ever heard from her uncle. Since she was a little girl, there had been little her Uncle Brynden had seemed incapable of. When her mother had died, it had been Brynden Tully who had been strong for their small family. “Even if it means leaving Father?”

“Even then.” Her uncle’s mouth was set into a hard line, and anger glinted in his eyes. “It’s his stubbornness that has brought it to this point.” With visible effort, he smiled at her. “I am leaving Riverrun, not the Tullys. If you or your sister, in particular, ever have need of me, I will be there if I can. I know what it’s like for your father to arrange your life for you.”

Catelyn thought about it. “Be there for Lysa, uncle,” she said. Lysa was why she had gone to her uncle in the first place. “I can bear it.”

“I thought you’d say as much,” her uncle sighed. “Just in case, Cat. Know that I love you and your brother too.”

The next day Uncle Brynden was gone, without an official farewell, and Riverrun sunk further into gloom.

 

\---

 

It was not completely rational, but Catelyn couldn’t help but feel that something worse was going to come. It felt like those days after her mother’s last stillbirth, when everyone knew that Minisa Tully _would_ die soon, but not whether it would be today or tomorrow or the day after. As the days went on and still nothing bad happened, she started to feel foolish. 

Her father was still angry. There was no Petyr, no Uncle Brynden. Lysa was still miserable. Brandon’s return and her own wedding looked very far away. For the first time, Catelyn almost looked forward to leaving Riverrun.

Eventually men came home from Harrenhal, bearing the scandalous news that when Prince Rhaegar had won the tourney, he had ridden straight past his wife Princess Elia to give the Queen of Love and Beauty’s crown to the unwed-but-betrothed Lyanna Stark.

“That’s so romantic,” Lysa sighed. “Like something from a song.” Catelyn could tell her heart wasn’t quite in it, but for her sister’s sake refrained from asking her, yet again, if she was well. 

Besides, Catelyn disagreed. “Not so romantic,” she said. “Think of poor Princess Elia.” How humiliating that must have been for her.

Rumour had it that Robert Baratheon, Lyanna Stark’s betrothed, was furious. Catelyn made no claims to know Brandon particularly well (yet), but she knew him enough to know that he would be indignant too.

The other, lesser scandal was the matter of Jaime Lannister. It transpired that he had been sent back to King’s Landing almost the instant the white cloak was fastened around his shoulders. It was said that Gerold Hightower had offered to return in Ser Jaime’s place, so that the young man could compete for the first time as a knight of the Kingsguard, but Aerys had refused.

That bit of news made Hoster Tully snort and shake his head. “Aerys plays a dangerous game,” he told Catelyn later, quietly, privately. “Tywin Lannister is not one to see his favoured son toyed with so. More than that, half the realm knows that he wanted his daughter betrothed to Rhaegar and Aerys rejected the match.” 

“What does it mean?” Catelyn asked. A low hum of anxiety spread throughout her. Her father had raised her for loyalty. Family, duty, honour. He had never spoken so of the king before.

“Nothing,” Lord Hoster said, and forced a smile. “I rely on you too much as it is, little Cat, and with my damned stubborn brother gone, I tell you far more than I should.”

“You’ve told me so since I was nine years old,” she reminded him.

“So I have.” Her father’s smile became more genuine then. “I will be sorry to give you to Brandon Stark.”

“I will be sorry to leave,” Catelyn replied. It was true. However unhappy her family was right now, it was still true. “But I feel I can look forward to wedding Brandon as well.”

That made her father laugh, the first time in weeks that she’d heard him do so. “That’s a bit of a contradiction, my girl. I hope you find the time to send me ravens, but a new household will keep you busy, especially one so large as Winterfell.” 

“Is there any word from him?” Catelyn asked. “Lord Brandon, that is.”

“He is on his way,” Lord Hoster said. “I believe he is staying with the Mallisters at the moment, and Lord Arryn’s heir with him. Lady Lyanna is travelling separately from him and their lord father; she should be here within a week or two.” 

“Before Brandon?” 

She did not know how she felt about spending time with Lady Lyanna without her brother present. They would likely have to coexist at Winterfell for a time, until Lyanna was wed to Lord Baratheon, and Catelyn knew little of the other woman. Brandon loved his sister very much, of that she was sure. His voice and his eyes had been fond whenever he had spoken of her.

“Yes, before Lord Brandon. I believe she intends to help you with the wedding preparations.” Another smile. “It would not be right for you to do it all yourself.” 

“The help would be appreciated,” Catelyn said. Lysa could be unreliable, sometimes. Lately even more so.

Not that she said that to Lysa. 

“It’s really happening,” Lysa said as they brushed their hair out that evening. “You’re really getting married.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said. “It had to happen someday.”

“You’ll be leaving.” 

“Yes,” Catelyn said again, not sure where Lysa was going with this. “But won’t you like being the lady of Riverrun?” Not officially, of course. Someone still had to do the work. With their father not inclined to remarry and Edmure too young for a wife of his own, that would be Lysa.

Lysa shook her head. “Father doesn’t trust me like he trusts you. He just wants to marry me off as fast as he can.” 

“Has he spoken to you about it?” Catelyn asked practically. With Jaime Lannister now unavailable, their father would have to find someone else for Lysa. There was not a chance they would be as choice a match as the handsome, dashing former heir to Casterly Rock. 

But Lysa was weeping, great fat tears rolling down her face.

Catelyn put down her hairbrush and went to Lysa’s side. “It’s all right,” she said, feeling inadequate. “Father will make a good match for you. He loves you.”

“I don’t want to be alone here,” Lysa sobbed. “Don’t go, Cat, don’t go.” 

“I don’t have a choice,” Catelyn said. Tears pricked at her own eyes. “I haven’t ever had a choice. I can’t refuse to marry Brandon.” 

“Uncle Brynden refused.”

“I’m not Uncle.” _I have my sword and my knighthood_ , her uncle had said. _You and your sister have nothing._ “It’s not for a few weeks yet.”

“That’s so soon,” Lysa wailed.

“But hardly sudden. We’ve had years to get used to it.” Catelyn worried late at night about leaving Riverrun, about what would happen if she couldn’t make her marriage to Brandon work, about Winterfell. It was easier to be strong when Lysa needed her. Lysa would have to leave Riverrun one day too.

One day. Catelyn’s day was but a few weeks from now. She tried to console her sister and tried not to show how worried she was.

 

\---

 

The day the bad news came began much like any other. Catelyn went about her duties, Lysa and Edmure about their lessons. Lyanna Stark had not arrived yet, though they expected her any day. If she were much later, Brandon would beat her here.

The first indication she had that anything was amiss outside the walls of Riverrun was, once again, when her father summoned her.

“What is it, Father?” she asked.

“Ill news,” he said. “Lyanna Stark has been abducted somewhere near Harrenhal.”

“What?”

“It’s worse than you think,” her father said grimly. “It was not common bandits who took her, but Rhaegar Targaryen himself.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Indeed. This is far beyond a crown of roses for the girl while his wife looked on. This could mean war, if Aerys handles this amiss.”

“Lady Lyanna is betrothed,” Catelyn remembered. “To Lord Baratheon, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That young man is not known for his temperate outlook on political affairs. Rickard Stark is no hothead, but he cannot allow his daughter’s abduction to pass quietly either.”

There was one more thing – no, two more things. “And you?” Catelyn asked. 

Her father sighed. “Lady Lyanna was my guest and travelling in my lands. My roads ought to be safe to travel; I work hard to keep the peace in the Riverlands; I do not like even a prince of the realm breaking it.”

“What do you plan to do?” He had to do something, that was clear.

“I would see what the Starks plan to do, first, and how Aerys responds to their accusations. Nobody seems to know where Prince Rhaegar might have gone.”

Her father had never been explicit about it, but from several comments over the past few years – including what he had said just now – she knew he had little faith in Aerys’ ability to govern. Nor was Catelyn blind to the wider implications. Abducting Lyanna Stark from the Riverlands was a grave insult to the Starks and the Baratheons, and a lesser but still serious one to her own family. The Martells of Dorne would not look kindly on what had happened either. Lord Lannister had ample cause to be displeased with King Aerys too.

All told, Catelyn could see that Aerys’ list of allies amongst the great houses was short and growing shorter.

It actually _could_ mean war. 

“Does Brandon know?” she asked. The other thing.

Her father sighed again, more deeply than the last time. “He likely knows by now,” he said. “Another young hothead. I pray the gods that he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

She would pray too.

Catelyn went to the sept with a heavy heart. Whether or not Brandon did something rash, as her father feared he would, this could well delay their wedding. Catelyn wanted to be married and done with it, after that terrible duel. And she wanted to pray for Lyanna Stark. It would be cold of Robert Baratheon to spurn her after she had been raped, but men did prefer their brides to be maids on the wedding night. Or so Catelyn had always been told.

The thought of war, however, was almost too big for her to comprehend. Hoster Tully had settled many a dispute over the years while Catelyn and her siblings waited behind at Riverrun. The closest she had been to any sort of military action was when her father took them all to Seagard to visit Lord Mallister after the Ironborn raiding season.

It was not there yet, she told herself. A glance to the image of the Warrior reassured her slightly. Prayer always did comfort her. 

It was only just over a week before the _worse_ news came.

The maester handed the message to Lord Hoster during lunch. As Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure all looked on curiously, their father read the note, then drained his wine goblet and slammed it down on the table. 

“Come with me, Cat,” he ordered, and Catelyn knew it was about Brandon.

When they reached his solar, Hoster did not speak immediately, instead pacing back and forward in some distress. Catelyn did her best to wait patiently. Her heart was beating fast, and she could not stop herself from wringing her hands.

“That gallant fool,” her father said eventually. He’d gone red in the face, as he did when he was well and truly wroth. “That hotheaded young _idiot_! Was he thinking with anything but his sword?”

Catelyn said nothing while her father continued to pace. Eventually, he spoke again. “Your betrothed,” he began, practically spitting the word, “upon hearing what had befallen his sister, found himself some equally noble, equally stupid friends, and rode to King’s Landing.”

He paused again, paced some more, and cursed a few times. “When he got there, he and his merry band of dunderheads rode up to the Red Keep and started shouting that Prince Rhaegar should come out to die for his crimes against the Lady Lyanna.” Another pause, some more cursing. Catelyn noted absently that she was twisting her hands so hard her fingers were turning white. “Aerys, it seems, dredged up enough love for his son to have Brandon and all his companions arrested for treason and their fathers all called to court to stand trial along with their sons for their crimes.”

Her father turned to her and said bluntly, “I hope you do not have your heart absolutely set on Brandon Stark, little Cat, because he may not survive his bout of chivalry.” 

“I –“ Catelyn tried to say, but her voice failed her. “It – it is a trial,” she managed. “He will have his chance to prove his innocence before gods and men. Won’t he?”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Hoster said, “but there is always a risk with this sort of thing. Rickard Stark has been summoned for trial as well. You could find yourself the Lady of Winterfell sooner than anticipated.”

Catelyn looked at the floor, and with an effort, moved her hands to her sides. “This is a mess, isn’t it?” 

“Very much so, little Cat,” her father said. “Very much so. I never thought there would be so much trouble involved in marrying off my daughters. You may go, Cat. If you tell your brother and sister anything of this, try not to scare them too badly.”

 

\---

 

“ _Are_ you scared?” Lysa asked. 

“Of course I’m scared,” Catelyn admitted. “Brandon might die.” 

“He’s good with a sword.” Lysa’s voice had more than a trace of bitterness in it. The duel was not so long ago. The memories were still fresh and red as the blood that had poured out of Petyr’s belly when Brandon sliced him open.

“It’s not like that,” Catelyn said. “He might have to duel one of the Kingsguard for his innocence.” And she didn’t know if Brandon was _that_ good with a sword. 

Lysa hesitated. “Do you know what will happen if he does get killed?”

Catelyn thought about it. “Brandon has two brothers,” she said. She had not met either of them. The next youngest, she thought, was only a little older than she was, and the youngest only a little younger than Lysa. “Father will probably want me to marry one of them.” 

She’d prefer Brandon. She knew him, a bit. She had got used to him. To the thought of marrying him. He had worn her favour. She had almost finished embroidering her maiden’s cloak, by all the gods. How many times over the last few years had she imagined Brandon taking it off and replacing it with his own?

She didn’t want this. She didn’t know what to do. There was nothing she _could_ do. Even if she were a man she wouldn’t ride to the Red Keep and demand Brandon’s release. It hadn’t helped Brandon, after all. 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Catelyn said. Lysa didn’t look convinced. Catelyn didn’t feel convinced.

Over the next few weeks, Catelyn discovered that worry and fear could burn slow. They could eat away at her bit by bit, never incapacitating her, but making each day an ordeal. Every raven flying overhead sent a stab of more intense feeling through her breast. Life went on, and so did anxiety.

When at last her father summoned her again to his solar, it was almost a relief. 

Almost. The instant she saw her father’s face she knew. 

“No,” she said. “No, no, it can’t be.” 

“It can, little Cat,” her father said. “It is. Brandon Stark is dead.”

“No,” she repeated. She felt tears well up in her eyes. “No.”

Her father crossed the room to embrace her and she sobbed into his shoulder. “There, there, my Cat,” he said, as if she was a little girl and not a woman grown. “There, there.”

 

\---

 

After she had calmed herself, she thought to ask more fully what had happened. She sat in the chair across from her father’s desk, trying her best to look composed. Her eyes were itchy, sore, and she suspected they were bloodshot as well.

 _You hardly knew him, Catelyn Tully_ , she reminded herself. But she couldn’t help it. It was herself she wept for as much as him. Brandon was dead and she would still have to marry. Marry someone she didn’t know at all, had never met, didn’t think was handsome maybe. She had once told Lysa that she would wed whomever Father told her to wed. It was Lysa who had been right. It was much harder now that she knew it would not be Brandon who gave her a wife’s cloak. 

Her father didn’t say anything until Catelyn was ready to speak. “What happened?” she asked at last, and didn’t stumble over the words.

“They areall dead,” Hoster Tully told her. “Every man Aerys arrested for treason and their fathers as well, save for Brandon’s squire, a Northman by the name of Glover, I believe. They were not given the trials they were entitled to. Aerys simply executed them all.”

Catelyn froze in her seat. “Rickard Stark as well? Lord Arryn’s heir? Jeffory Mallister?”

“All of them.” 

“That’s insanity,” Catelyn said. It made no sense. Brandon couldn’t be dead, and it couldn’t have been all without trials. “Why would King Aerys do such a thing?”

“Who knows why madmen do anything?” Lord Hoster asked grimly. “That’s not all.” He pushed a piece of parchment across his desk to Catelyn. “It attaints Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark as traitors and calls for them to go to King’s Landing as well,” he said as Catelyn scanned the letter. “Lord Arryn probably has his own copy of this by now.”

“Lord Arryn?” Catelyn felt numb, now. If murdering _Lord Stark_ and his heir was insanity, this was no better. It might even be worse. 

“Yes, both the new Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon were fostered with him. Last I heard, Robert Baratheon was still in the Vale. I don’t know about Eddard Stark.”

“In the Vale too, I think,” Catelyn said. “Brandon told me his brother and Lord Robert were going back to the Eyrie after the tourney at Harrenhal, and then they were going to come here together.” _For Brandon’s wedding. My wedding._  

Her father nodded. “Thank you, Cat. That makes sense.”

“Will Lord Arryn hand them over to the king?”

“Not a chance in any of the seven hells. Those two were his wards. He won’t betray that trust.”

Catelyn pushed the letter back to her father. “So what happens now?” she asked. 

“War,” he said. It was going to happen, then. Brandon was dead and there was going to be a war. “I don’t know exactly when or how the fighting will begin, but Arryn won’t stand for Aerys trying to kill his wards, and the new Lord Stark cannot let Aerys kill his father and brother without trial while Rhaegar rapes his sister. Lord Baratheon already wanted blood for what happened to Lady Lyanna. The alliance is already in place.”

“And you?” Father had betrothed her to Brandon for a reason. House Stark and House Tully were to be allies, he had said. If the Starks were going to war… 

“I will ally with them,” Lord Hoster said. “Though I would have you married first, and hopefully your sister as well. I will see you Lady of Winterfell, I promise you.”

“Thank you, father,” she said. She had thanked him when he first arranged her marriage to Brandon, now she thanked him when Brandon died. He wanted the best for her.

“Now, Cat, dry your eyes and wash your face. I have need of you.” He reached across and squeezed her hand. “I must call the banners and you must stock my larders. There will be war in these Riverlands soon enough.”

 

\---

 

“What’s going on?” Lysa asked that night. Catelyn had retired late, but her sister was still awake. “I couldn’t find you all afternoon. You missed dinner. So did Father.”

“I was talking to the stewards,” Catelyn said. She had talked to the stewards for a long time. The tail end of winter was a bad time to need a great deal of food. And all the many other things Riverrun would need for a war. It would take a while for their coffers to recover.

“But _all afternoon_?” 

“Yes.” Catelyn flopped back on her pillows and stared up at the ceiling. The moonlight was dim tonight, making all the shadows thick and deep. “Brandon was murdered,” she said. “Lord Rickard too. Father says there’s going to be a war.”

It was easier to say in the dark. She didn’t have to see Lysa’s face as her sister sat bolt upright. “A war?” Lysa said, voice shaky. “Against?” 

“The king. The king was the one who murdered Lord Rickard and Brandon. He wants to kill Brandon’s brother, and Lord Baratheon.”

“Oh gods,” Lysa said. “Truly?” 

“Truly,” Catelyn replied.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.” How big would the war get? Would there be fighting here, or near them? Would their uncle come back, would their father go to battle? Would she and Lysa be married off quickly to cement alliances for their house?

That, at least, seemed likely. 

It was some weeks before the raven from Lord Stark arrived. Lord _Eddard_ Stark. Not Rickard, not Brandon.

“Read it for yourself, Cat,” her father said. He looked pleased enough.

The letter explained in neat writing and clipped sentences that the writer was unattached. He was content to take his brother’s place and wed Lord Tully’s elder daughter, so that the arrangement between his late father and Lord Tully might be fulfilled. He found an alliance with House Tully most desirable in these troubled times. He would be willing to marry the lady immediately upon his arrival at Riverrun – if, of course, he was welcome. 

Whether Catelyn was equally content there was not a mention. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have a choice. It was war. 

Besides, if she wed Lord Stark, she would buy her father the swords of that house. She hadn’t thought about it like that before. If she did, she might be able to come to terms with it.

“Well?” her father asked. 

“This is good,” she said. “I have no objections.”

She left imagining what Eddard Stark would look like. Younger, but with the same bold features and brilliant smile. If Eddard Stark was anything like his brother, Catelyn was sure she could get used to him eventually as well.

In the meantime, war in Riverrun was not like she had expected. She had been under the impression that war involved battles, and the Riverlands had seen none yet. “It will come here eventually,” her father said gravely, as she and Lysa and Edmure listened. “Robert Baratheon cuts his way through the Reach, while Jon Arryn marches his armies down from the Vale and Eddard Stark from the North. They will all meet here, and the Targaryens will follow after.”

“Which side are we on?” Edmure asked. 

“At the moment, neither, officially,” Lord Hoster told his heir. “Soon we will be rebels.” 

Edmure nodded. “Why?”

“Aerys Targaryen had the last Lord Stark killed, when he had promised to give him a trial instead. He did not get his rightful chance to prove his innocence or his son’s innocence. That is not the sort of thing a king should do.”

“Why did Lord Stark need a trial? Had he done something bad?” 

“No, but his son Brandon – you remember Lord Brandon, who was to wed your sister? – did something very foolish. Now, he did that foolish thing because he loved his own sister very much, and because Aerys’ son had done something very bad to her. He deserved to have his complaints heard, but Aerys killed him too, and all the men who went with him. Some of those men were Mallisters, our own bannermen.”

There was silence at the table while Edmure tried to absorb all that. He was still only a little boy.

“Now,” their father said, when he judged Edmure had processed sufficiently, “the rebels – Lord Arryn, the new Lord Stark, and Lord Baratheon – have offered a good marriage for your sister Catelyn, and I may be able to get a good marriage for your sister Lysa as well. Both sides need our swords, and not only can the rebels give us more for them, but our bannermen would have us support the rebels as well.”

Catelyn glanced at Lysa at that statement. It was the first her father had said about arranging a match for her sister, especially so soon. By the shocked, sick look on Lysa’s face, it was the first she had heard of it too.

“Can you tell me why the war started?” Lord Hoster asked Edmure.

“The king did bad things and our bannermen want us to rebel too,” Edmure said dutifully. He knew how their father’s lessons went. 

“Close enough.” 

“Father –“ Lysa began.

“Not now,” their father said, and shot Lysa a quelling glance. Lysa quieted immediately. Soon afterwards, Lysa made her excuses and left the table, leaving Catelyn none the wiser about what was going on.

 

\---

 

A letter came for her from Petyr soon afterwards. The maester handed it to her privately, saying that he would defer to her judgment as to whether her father should be told. He trusted her, she could see it in his eyes.

A letter from Petyr, so soon after Brandon's death. He must have heard. He must want something from her. But she was to wed Eddard Stark. There was nothing she could give him. There was nothing she  _wanted_ to give him. She did not love Petyr as he loved her. She did not want to marry him any more than she wanted to marry Eddard Stark.

She did not know if she could forgive him for that  _stupid_ duel. 

It might be cruel of her to be angry with him for it, when he was the one who had had his belly sliced open by her betrothed, but she had never asked for him to do anything of the sort. It was the last thing she wanted. If he loved her at all, she thought, he would have listened to her. He would have listened to her, let her wed Brandon, and stayed here in Riverrun. It would have saved them all a lot of grief. Not just her, but Lysa and Edmure as well.

And her personal feelings about Petyr and his actions aside, she was to wed Eddard Stark.

She burned the letter, unopened and unread. She told her father what she had done, and he nodded approvingly when he heard.

 

\---

 

At last the day came when the first outriders of the Northern army came to Riverrun. There was fighting in the south of the Riverlands now. Storm’s End was under siege and there were ten thousand Dornishmen marching to the aid of the Targaryens (none too eagerly, her father reported). And Catelyn would soon be wed.

The outriders were followed by the host itself, assured that they would find a welcome on Hoster Tully’s lands. It was not just the Northmen who came, either. When Catelyn went to look, she saw the moon-and-falcon of the Arryns alongside the direwolf of Stark. Behind them were scattered scores of unfamiliar banners. 

 _How could the Targaryens hope to stand against this_ , she wondered as she gazed out over the camps. She had never seen so many men in the one place before. Yet when she repeated the thought to her father, he said that even counting his own men and the Baratheon forces trying to link up with them all, they were outnumbered by the royalists.

But she put the matter out of her mind. She had a feast to arrange. Several feasts, in fact. One of them would be for her own wedding. 

It seemed a hundred years ago she had expected Lyanna Stark to be helping her with this. And she had never thought that Riverrun would be the centre of an army camp while she tried to arrange for wedding flowers.

Catelyn had hoped to get at least a glimpse of, and preferably an introduction to, her soon-to-be husband when he arrived. Instead he and Lord Arryn immediately marched off to her father’s solar for a lengthy discussion.

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Lysa asked her. She had been avoiding their father since he had mentioned the possibility of her marriage, and silent when circumstances forced her to spend time in his presence. 

“What else?” Catelyn asked. “The war.”

She was anxious too. The man she would marry was in her father’s solar. Tomorrow, perhaps the day after, they would say their vows. And after that –

It was so _close_ now. 

Three hours after Lord Stark had arrived at Riverrun, Catelyn was summoned to her father’s solar. Her heart was beating fast, faster than it had when she had met Brandon five years ago. She knew more of what a wife was and what marriage meant now than she had then.

Catelyn knocked, then entered. 

There were two men seated across from Lord Hoster. They stood when they saw her. Both quickly smoothed unhappy expressions from their faces. 

“Catelyn,” her father said, “This is Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Eddard Stark.”

She curtsied. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lords,” she said.

Lord Eddard…was related to Brandon. That much could be said of his looks. He had the same dark brown hair and cool grey eyes. He was shorter, plainer, and less muscular than his brother. He had a long face and a short beard. The set of his jaw, the tightness of his lips, and the sharp downwards draw of his eyebrows made Catelyn think that he had probably never been happy in his life.

Even as she looked at him his expression became colder. She was disappointed – and she realized that he could see it in her face. Catelyn immediately put on her best and prettiest smile, though under that icy grey stare it felt horribly insincere. 

“Lady Catelyn,” Jon Arryn said. “It is our pleasure.”

She had hardly spared Lord Arryn a glance. He was old. Older by far than her father. Whatever colour his hair had once been, it was now iron grey. Skin hung loose at his neck and wrists. His eyes, however, were still bright and alert, and his movements were spry. 

“Lady Catelyn,” Eddard Stark echoed. Nothing more.

“I have called for your sister as well,” her father said. “You are both to be married in two days.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Catelyn replied, as warmly as she could. Lysa married too? She wondered whether to ask to whom. Inside she felt like shriveling up from embarrassment. She would have to spend the rest of her life with Eddard Stark, and she could never do that moment again. There were more important things than a man’s looks. She had always been taught that.

Still, he just wasn’t as handsome as his brother.

“Is there anything my lords would like me to arrange for?” she asked, to cover up the awkward moment.

Eddard Stark shook his head. Hoster Tully said, “No, thank you, Catelyn. You’ve done quite enough already.” 

Lysa arrived then, edging around the solar door and into view. “Father? You asked for me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have important news for you, Lysa. You are to marry Lord Arryn, here.”

Lysa went white as her eyes flew to Lord Arryn. Catelyn felt a sting of sympathy. Her own introduction to Lord Eddard now looked ideal by comparison. “Oh,” she said. To their credit, both Lord Eddard and Lord Arryn kept their composure. “May I ask when?”

“Two days from now.” 

“Oh,” Lysa said again, faintly. “So soon.” She curtsied to Lord Arryn, her eyes directed at the floor. “My lord.”

Lord Arryn inclined his head to her. “My lady.” 

“Father,” Catelyn interrupted, concerned that Lysa might start to cry right then and there, “May we be excused? Lysa and I must prepare.” Eddard Stark could wait. She hadn’t expected to have to arrange Lysa’s wedding as well as her own. Such short notice. 

As Catelyn ushered Lysa out, she heard her father murmur an apology, and Lord Arryn reply “I hardly expect a maid of fifteen years to be overjoyed at the prospect of wedding me, my lord.”

Eddard Stark said nothing.

As soon as Catelyn and Lysa were back in the safety of their chambers, Lysa lost her composure entirely. Her tears flowed uncontrollably down her face and she stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle her sobs. Catelyn sat next to her in silence. 

“I knew it,” Lysa said, once she could speak again. “I knew Father would do this.” She had not stopped weeping. Catelyn had sent for some well-watered wine and coaxed her to drink at least a little. “I knew it. He doesn’t want me to be happy.”

Catelyn did not know what to say to that. “Lord Arryn is a good match,” she said, but there was no getting around the fact that Lord Arryn was also old enough to be their father’s father. Catelyn would not want to wed him herself. “He can still give you children. It’s not all bad.”

That seemed to work better, so Catelyn continued. “You’ll have sons to carry on the Arryn name and daughters as pretty as you are.” Lysa would likely have to raise any children she had to majority herself. “You’ll be a good mother, I know it.”

Those were the words that finally stopped Lysa’s tears. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” she said timidly. “Do you really think so, Cat?”

“Yes,” Catelyn replied. “Come, dry your eyes, and I’ll help you sew your maiden’s cloak.”

 

\---

 

It took most of the day. Catelyn couldn’t help Lysa with all of it, as she still had charge of the feast. A double wedding. How pleased her father must be. That made one of them.

As she went down to the kitchens to check on the last of the preparations, an unfamiliar set of footsteps drew level with her. She was too well-bred to startle obviously, and besides, there were many unfamiliar men in Riverrun these days.

“My lady,” Eddard Stark said, and at that Catelyn did jump. A little. 

“My lord,” she said. “What brings you to the bowels of the keep?”

“You do.” Catelyn looked at him. His expression was still tight, severe, and above all unhappy. “What I mean, my lady, is that I wished to speak with you.”

“Of course, my lord,” she replied. “What would you like to speak to me about?” 

“Would you walk with me?” 

“Gladly.”

He offered her his arm, as Brandon had. “Where might we talk, my lady,” he asked, “that – that we may be observed without necessarily making our conversation public?” 

So that nobody would think that they had laid together before the wedding, Catelyn surmised. That was considerate of him. “The godswood,” she said automatically. She had taken Brandon there, too, the first time they met. This felt wrong. This wasn’t the same as it was with Brandon. She shouldn’t expect it to be, and she shouldn’t try to do things the same. Probably. Maybe Lord Eddard would like the light conversation. It was hard to believe, and Catelyn didn’t feel like making any. 

Somewhere out there men were dying in this rebellion, and Catelyn was worried about flowers and candles and feasts and being bedded by a man she didn’t know.

They walked there in somewhat strained silence. Catelyn wished she knew what he wanted of her. Lord Eddard’s face gave nothing away. He was clearly not at ease with her and that made her ill at ease with him in turn.

When they reached the godswood, Lord Eddard turned to her and said, simply, “I am sorry.”

“Sorry for what, my lord?” she asked. 

Eddard turned away from her. “The situation,” he said. Catelyn had to strain her ears to hear him. “You were betrothed to my brother for some years. His death must have been a shock for you.”

A lump formed in Catelyn’s throat, which she quickly choked back down. It had been a shock. It was upsetting. She was speaking, however, to Brandon’s own brother. “I expect you have been suffering more than I have,” she said.

Eddard did not deny it. Neither of them could pretend that her hurt even approached his. “Still, this all must have been difficult for you,” he said. “I do not wish to cause you any more pain.”

“May I speak freely, my lord?”

“When we are alone, I would not have you speak anything but,” Eddard said. 

Catelyn hesitated, then plunged ahead. “We both know why we must do this, my lord.”

“The agreement between our fathers.”

“And my father’s swords.” 

“Yes.”

“My lord, I do not know if there was another lady you wanted to wed, and to be completely honest, I do not care to know. We have no choice. I swear to you I will be as good a wife to you as I know how to be. I will honour and respect you, and not expect anything from you that you cannot give. I promise you that, my lord. I promise.”

It was more audacious by far than anything she had ever said to Brandon, bolder even than asking him to spare Petyr’s life. It seemed to take Eddard aback. It was hard to spot, but his eyes widened slightly. Catelyn almost regretted her words, but no. She was done with this. She just wanted to be married. It seemed like every time she tried to have her wedding, something bad happened. This could be an end to it.

“And I will promise the same to you,” he said. “If I live to return to Winterfell with you, I will be as good a husband to you as I know how to be, though I fear I am not Brandon and never will be.” 

“I do not expect you to be, my lord.” Catelyn looked at Eddard again, his plainer face, his leaner build. He was not unhandsome, really, it was just that she kept comparing him to his brother. She needed to stop. She needed to stop that _right now_ – by tomorrow night, at the latest. “We need not be unhappy in this match.”

“Ned,” he said suddenly. 

“Pardon me, my lord?”

“Most people call me Ned, my lady. You are not most people to me, but I would have you call me Ned all the same.”

“Using each other’s names seems a good first step,” Catelyn agreed. “You have permission to use mine. Ned.”

“Lady Catelyn,” he said, with a solemn nod.

It was a start, she supposed. The ridiculousness of the entire thing made her want to start laughing. This man was supposed to bed her tomorrow night and he could not even call her by name. But if there was one thing she should not do now, she knew, it was laugh. It was about all she could do to smother a nervous giggle nevertheless.

It seemed Eddard was also struck by the absurdity, since he coughed awkwardly. “Catelyn,” he corrected himself. “I – I just wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise for not being Brandon?”

“Yes,” Eddard said.

How could he keep a straight face as he said that? “It’s not something you had a choice about,” Catelyn said. “And neither do I. We must both make the best of what we have.”

He was stuck with her and she was stuck with him and if he survived this war they would both be stuck in Winterfell, a prospect that had never seemed so potentially bleak and joyless as it had until the minute she saw Lord Eddard’s solemn face. If he lived, which could not be guaranteed. It was not a statement conducive to further conversation, and there was once again silence between them.

“Do you have a heart tree?” Eddard asked her after a little while. 

“Yes. Do you wish to visit it?”

“Yes.”

“I will take you there myself,” she said. “It’s not far.”

Her husband-to-be offered her his arm again, and they continued deeper into the godswood. “I hope you did not take offense at what I said,” Catelyn said, worried that she had overstepped. She did not know how to read his silence, much less his face.

Eddard didn’t so much as look at her, which did not help her understand him in the least. “I said you should speak freely,” he replied. “I do not take offense. You’ve only spoken true. I don’t have a choice, and neither do you.” 

Catelyn tried to smile. “So you aren’t just trying to get rid of me now?”

“No,” he said. “I simply wish to pray. And you must be busy. I did not mean to interrupt your work.”

“I am busy,” she admitted. “But I’m glad you came to speak to me. I didn’t particularly want our first true exchange of conversation to be our wedding vows.” She risked a small jest. “I would not relish introducing myself in the bedding chamber.”

The very corner of his mouth twitched upwards. Catelyn took it for a smile.

  

\---

 

The morning of her wedding began with Lysa shaking her awake. “Stop it,” she mumbled, and tried to escape her sister’s hands.

“Cat, get up, get up, I need you,” Lysa said.

 _I need you_ were words Cat had never been able to ignore, not from her sister, so she sat up. “What is it?” she said, and then she noticed Lysa’s tears. 

“I can’t do it, Cat,” she said. “I just can’t.”

“Oh, Lysa,” Catelyn sighed. Now that she was awake, _on the morning of her wedding_ no less, all she could feel herself was numb. Maybe she would be weeping too if she had not talked to Ned Stark and almost made him smile.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

She poured Lysa some water and made her drink it. Wine might have been better, but the risk there was that Lysa would be drunk by the time it came to say her vows. Half a goblet of strongwine right before they went to the sept, Catelyn decided, followed by a sprig of mint to sweeten her breath. 

Water was definitely not enough to calm her sister. She did her best to soothe her, though, with a strange detachment. 

It was really happening today. As yet there was no sign of the gods sending some new disaster to interrupt. Just a low, cloudy sky and an unusually good breakfast sent up to her and Lysa. “You’ll feel better once you eat something,” Catelyn told her sister. 

The food worked where nothing else had. After some fruit and an almond cake, Lysa’s tears diminished. They did not stop entirely, though, and soon they would have to dress. 

“You can do this,” Catelyn insisted. “You can. You know what to say. Come to the sept with me. We’ll practice.” There were still a few hours before they had to be ready.

It was raining slightly when she and Lysa made the walk through the godswood to the sept. As they hurried through, hair carefully covered, Catelyn saw Eddard Stark praying beneath the heart tree. Northerner, she remembered, no follower of the Seven. He must want the approval of his gods quite badly if he was out here in the rain.

Inside the sept, most everything was in readiness. The candles were here, unlit at the moment. The seats were all oriented towards the statues of the Mother and Father, where the ceremony would take place. “Here we are,” she said. “Look, nothing scary.” 

Still Lysa’s tears dripped onto the stone floor. 

The words of the wedding ceremony were familiar. She and Lysa had them memorized a long time ago, dreaming of this day. It had been very different in those dreams, fancying of wedding handsome, laughing young men. Brandon, in Catelyn’s case, ever since she’d met him. Not dour men who prayed to trees alone in the rain, or men old enough to be their grandfather. Catelyn was pinning all her hopes of something more, something better, on the trace of Ned Stark’s smile. She had no other choice.

After the wedding feasts were over, they were supposed be sent off from Riverrun with smiles, to be greeted at the households of their husbands with the same. Instead they would say goodbye to their new husbands almost as soon as they’d wedded them, and their father would go too. They could all die out there. 

This was not how it was supposed to be. It wasn’t fair. Catelyn felt like crying herself as she recited the familiar words and prompted Lysa to say them too. “There, see,” she finished. “You _can_ do this.”

To her relief, Lysa nodded.

“Come on,” Catelyn said. “Let’s get dressed.” 

Their wedding dresses were both blue. Lysa dried her tears and, with a little bit of powder, it was near impossible to tell that she’d been weeping for hours. If the stitching on Lysa’s maiden’s cloak was a bit rushed, nobody would be examining it that closely either. 

Their father met them at the sept door with a smile. Catelyn had hardly seen him these past two days. He looked tired, and Catelyn was struck by how his hair was starting to show streaks of grey. “Catelyn, Lysa,” he said. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes, father,” they chorused.

“You both look beautiful,” he said. “Lord Stark and Lord Arryn will no doubt be impressed.”

“Thank you, father,” they said.

He reached out his hands, one for Catelyn, one for Lysa. “My girls,” he said. “I hope you will be happy in your marriages. I know neither man would have been your first choice of husband, but they are both good men, and they will treat you well. I love you both very much, and I could not give you to anyone less.” 

Lord Hoster escorted Catelyn into the sept first. The candles were all alight now. They needed them – though the rain had stopped, the cloud had not lifted, and the early spring afternoon was as dark as evening. Her wedding guests were an assortment of grim-faced men readier for a battle than a wedding feast, with hardly a lady to be seen amongst them. The lords bannermen of Riverlands, North and Vale knew what was being achieved here for their cause.

Eddard Stark was waiting for her by the statue of the Father, a particularly serious expression on his face. If Catelyn knew him better, she might find it a very appealing expression. Instead she just wondered if this might in time be a fond memory, and reassured herself that at least her husband did not undertake this lightly. 

Jon Arryn, she saw, gave Eddard a reassuring smile. How it affected its intended target, she didn’t know, but she at least felt better for knowing that she was not the only one of them who was nervous about this.

When her father brought Lysa to the statue of the Mother next to her, looking for all the world as if she were utterly delighted to wed Jon Arryn, the ceremony began.

Ned Stark was not comfortable with it all, she could tell. She thought it was the sept that he didn’t like. When called to kneel, he simply bowed his head. The septon looked askance at him for it. But he went through the motions with no more love for her than she had for him.

He was gentle, rather awkward in fact, when he removed her maiden’s cloak and replaced it with one bearing the Stark direwolf. He even fumbled slightly with the clasp. It almost fell off, and she had to fix it herself lest it did. A bad omen, all agreed.

Their hands brushed as she did so. There was no spark, no special warmth, nothing like she had felt with Brandon. There was no joy in this occasion, not for either of them.

At last she had to speak her vows. Now that the moment came her mouth was rather dry. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” she said, “and take you for my lord and husband.”

Eddard replied, “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”

They both knew the truth of this. _With this kiss we do our duty._ It was a perfunctory sort of affair and lasted no more than a second or two. His short beard scratched at Catelyn’s mouth.

With that, it was done. She was Catelyn Stark now.

There was still the bedding, and what would happen after the bedding, when she and Eddard were alone as man and wife for the first time. 

She only knew a little about private relations between men and women. There was what her septa had taught her, which was not much, and there was what she had overheard over the years that she hadn’t supposed to. At the least, she knew what went where and how it was supposed to make her feel.

Some of the things she had overheard, she did not feel she would be brave enough to try and could not imagine being enjoyable. 

Lost in her own thoughts, she scarcely heard Lysa say her own vows. The sound of applause brought her back to herself, and she remembered to stay on Eddard’s arm rather than seeking her father’s.

She also had to remember to smile. She had to, even if her new husband didn’t seem inclined to do any such thing. Next to them, Lysa and Jon Arryn were managing perfectly well. 

Manage perfectly well. What else could a good wife do?

 

\---

 

She enjoyed the feast. All those grim battle-ready men seemed relieved now and the atmosphere was merry. For the moment. 

Better still, she was lucky enough to be seated next to her father. Her husband was at her other side, but as she had discovered the day before, he was not much of a conversationalist. Poor Lysa was unlucky again. Smiling at Jon Arryn was a different matter to conversing with him.

“What happens next?” she whispered to her father, once Eddard had been dragged into a conversation with a Lord Ryswell.

“Do you mean next as in this evening, or next as in next morning?”

“Next morning,” Catelyn said. “And after. I know you must all go to war soon.” 

The question made her father sigh. “We will be gone in ten days, two weeks perhaps. It’s far too dangerous for you to travel to Winterfell now, or Lysa to the Eyrie. You will both stay here at Riverrun for the time being.”

“Have you told Edmure?”

“He knows some already. I’ll tell him the rest tomorrow. You know, Cat, that even though you are Lady Stark now, the people of Riverrun will rely on you in my absence.”

That was another weight on her mind. As if she didn’t have enough.

At last the music slowed and Catelyn knew it was nearly time. “Are you ready, my lady?” Eddard asked her.

Catelyn nodded, trying not to let her apprehension show. Last time there had been a wedding in Riverrun, her father had deemed her old enough to participate in the bedding. She had not dared to do anything but take a few items of clothing as they were passed to her by ladies far more bold. From her place at the table, forbidden from taking part, Lysa had shouted a jest about the man’s parts and her face had gone as red as her hair. Petyr had probably encouraged her.

Now it was her turn.

“I am ready, my lord,” she said.

“As am I,” he replied. “You need not worry.”

 _Too late, my lord._ The chant for them to be stripped had already gone up. Hands seized her arm and tugged her insistently from her seat. The men were careful not to hurt her. But there were hands all over her, and her clothes were tearing. She could feel cool air where before there had been heavy cloth.

A young man made a comment about her teats and turned as red as Lysa had when she had made her own joke. Catelyn could feel herself colouring too. Naked. Naked in front of this many men.

Then she was picked up and carried upstairs. Somewhere nearby Eddard Stark was being stripped and carried himself, and back in the main hall it was likely that Lysa and her husband were undergoing the same treatment. Catelyn’s thoughts jolted around with every step the cheering men carrying her took to Eddard Stark’s rooms. Not her own familiar chambers. Eddard Stark’s, or at least the chambers she herself had said should be his while he stayed at Riverrun.

Another cheer went up when she was placed on the bed. The mattress sagged as Eddard Stark was bundled in next to her. “Wedded and bedded!” everyone cried, and started to troop out.

The door closed with a slam and left Catelyn alone and naked with her husband. On her back, even.

Oddly, though, she could feel the colour going out of her face. She was still nervous. But she could breathe again, and the hands were off her, and nobody was shouting rude jokes.

The idea of Eddard Stark making any sort of jest was quite ridiculous. 

“How should we proceed?” Eddard asked her.

Catelyn did not look at him. “In the normal way,” she said. It was somewhat reassuring to know that her husband was as unsure about this as she was. “This isn’t a battle and you need not plan out how to conquer me.”

“Very well.” She heard him take a deep breath, and then he climbed atop her. She could not avoid looking at him then. _Not unhandsome_ , she thought as he began. _And n_ _ot unpleasant._

It was a messier affair than Catelyn had expected, or ever been told. Likewise, she had never been instructed not to accidentally knee her husband after he accidentally put too much weight on her. It had startled her. 

When it was over, Eddard rolled off. That was it, Catelyn supposed. They lay side by side for a while, not touching. Catelyn wondered whether her husband didn’t know what to say, or whether he felt nothing needed to be said.

“If we are fortunate, a son will come from this,” she said at last.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “If we are fortunate.”

“Catelyn,” she reminded him, but he made no reply. She turned to look at him to find he was asleep.

 

\---

 

There was more applause and a few more randy jokes when she and Eddard went to the hall to break their fasts. Catelyn did not blush. She was a woman wed now. She ought not blush.

“I fear I must leave you to your own devices today, my lady,” Eddard said as they ate. “There is work I must attend to in the camps." 

“As long as you are not fleeing in terror from me, I can manage quite well enough on my own,” Catelyn replied. 

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards again. “I will return by the evening meal.” _And to their bed._ Lying with Eddard Stark hadn’t been so very bad. Even if it had, it still must be done. She must give her lord husband an heir. 

When he had gone, Catelyn went to the sept. Praying to the Mother that her husband’s seed might quicken in her womb was very different now that she actually had a husband who had spent his seed in her. It was not some far-off, one-day prayer. It might happen and happen soon. 

 _I am not sure I want a child just now,_ she thought guiltily. She dare not say it aloud, it was such a selfish thought.

She wanted to do her duty. That meant a son. She definitely wanted children, for herself and not for her duty. But this was a time of war. She did not want to bear her husband a babe only for Eddard to die in battle and leave her to take their child north. That would be so very lonely. It did not bear thinking about, what it would be like in Winterfell with a son but no husband, a southron woman who had known the late lord not even a turn of the moon and yet bore responsibility for raising the young Lord Stark.

Worse still was what might happen if they lost this war. 

But that was just her imagination running away with her. Here and now, Eddard was alive, and the war neither lost nor won.

“A son,” she said aloud to the Mother. “A healthy, strong son.” She did want that. “I want to learn to love my husband,” she went on. “I do not expect it to happen all at once, or for anything like I felt for Brandon.”

It was not the first time she had asked the gods to help her love a man. Truth be told, she did not want to come to love him so quickly, not when she might lose him in any battle. 

“If not love, help me then to think kindly of him, and to respect and honour him, and to be able to do what he asks of me. Help me to be a good mother to his children.” 

It was such a dangerous thing to ask that she went to the Warrior straight after the Mother. She needed to pray for her father’s wellbeing too in any case. “I know Eddard does not follow you,” she told the icon. “But I am a faithful daughter and I know I can be a faithful wife, and I have lost one betrothed to violence already. Please keep my husband safe.”

She lit her candles and hoped. 

Catelyn then went to find Lysa, concerned about her sister. She had looked well during the wedding itself, and the feast, but she could not forget how Lysa had wept before. And she had lost sight of her sister during the bedding ceremony.

Lysa was not in the godswood, nor in the kitchens, nor doing any lessons (she too was a woman wed, after all, and the time for lessons with septa was past). Instead, Catelyn found her sister in their old rooms.

“I’d rather sleep here,” Lysa said. “I like these rooms better.”

“When they all leave you can come back for a while,” Catelyn told her. “I doubt anyone will care what room you sleep in then.”

“How long will that be?” Lysa sighed. “And how long will they all be away?”

“Father said they didn’t want to stay here that long. He told me two weeks at most. Who knows how long it will take them to win the war?”

Probably more than a year. If they won. If they lost, they might never see their husbands again, or their father. The last Catelyn had been told, Robert Baratheon was still fighting his way north, and the castle of Storm’s End still held, and the Dornishmen were still dragging their feet, and the Lannisters were still keeping out of matters. 

Still, still, still, still. Everything had been stuck in place. Catelyn and Lysa’s weddings might have changed that. That was why they had to marry. That and no other reason.

Eddard didn’t love her. She didn’t love Eddard. That was why she prayed to the Mother, not just the Warrior.

She could only imagine how Lysa must feel. “Are you well?” she asked, though she knew Lysa had become truly sick of the question over the past year. 

“Well enough. I got a bit drunk, so it wasn’t so very bad as I thought it would be.” She lowered her voice. “Lord Arryn’s breath smells of onions.”

“Lord Stark nearly knocked the breath out of me,” Catelyn said, equally quiet. “I don’t think he’s been with many women.” If any, but she did not intend to ask him and imply any inadequacy in that arena.

They both smothered laughter, and it was a sad, quiet sort of sound in their old and empty room.

“It’s only for two weeks,” Catelyn said. “Then there will be months and months by ourselves here.” 

Lysa smiled. A true smile, an expression Catelyn had not seen much of since Petyr left. “I hope I’m with child, Cat. I so want a son. Even a daughter. A little lord or lady for the Eyrie. I’d rather they took after me, but I would not be unhappy if any of them had Lord Arryn’s eyes.” She nodded decisively. “What about you?”

“I’m not sure,” Catelyn said slowly. “I hope I’m with child too,” a partial lie, “but I think I would like my sons to take after their father.” Little brown-haired boys with long faces and serious grey eyes. “Though I think I would like at least one babe who looks more like me.”

“Oh, Cat. Just thinking about it -!”

And she was so happy, happier than Catelyn had seen her for so long, that Catelyn could not bear to remind her sister that things often did not work out so well.

 

\---

 

Catelyn woke early the day the armies were to depart from Riverrun. After two weeks she was rather more used to sleeping beside a man. Or this man, in any case. After he bedded her, Eddard left her to sleep on her own half of the bed.

The sun was not even up yet. Catelyn lit a candle, put on a robe, and sat down to brush her hair. She wanted to look nice as she said her farewells.

It was not long until she heard Eddard stirring behind her. Unusually, he did not rise straight away. She had quickly learned that he was not one to lie abed. “Did you need something, Ned?” Catelyn asked, turning to him. It was difficult calling him simply _Ned_ when they were alone, but he had asked. 

He looked well enough. He was looking straight at her, in fact. “Nothing, my lady,” he said. She had still not persuaded him to call her simply Catelyn. She hoped she could, but it might have to wait until they were living together in Winterfell. “I was just thinking that your hair is very beautiful.” 

Catelyn stopped brushing mid-stroke. It was the first compliment he’d paid her, the first indication she’d had that he might desire her for herself. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, stunned.

That was apparently all he had to say. He got up and went about his business, and Catelyn returned to hers. 

It seemed no time at all until she was walking to the gates of Riverrun, braid carefully styled over her shoulder, Edmure at her side. Edmure was also dressed up, and for once looked very serious. Father had appointed a castellan, since he could leave neither Lady Stark nor Edmure to rule his keep. 

Father was already prepared to depart, looking very grand in his armour, atop his best palfrey. He had his banners flying high. “Cat,” he said warmly, when she approached him. “I’d leave you in charge here in a heartbeat if I could. Don’t let your brother get into too much trouble, my girl.”

“I won’t, Father,” she said. “Please be careful.” 

“I’ll be as careful as I can,” he said. “Wait for me, little Cat, I’ll be back as always.”

She passed Lysa and Lord Arryn on her way to find Eddard. Their farewells were short and formal, she noticed. Once again she felt a stab of pity for her sister. Perhaps the next few months apart from her husband would do her good. Give her time to grow up more.

At last she found her own husband. He made for a wintry figure in his unadorned, unenamelled plate and the white and grey of his house. “My lady,” he said when he saw her. 

“My lord,” she replied. “I came to say goodbye. For the time being. I wish you good fortune and safety.” 

He accepted her wishes with a grave nod. 

“I will write if there is any news,” Catelyn continued. If she was with child. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I would like you to stay safe as well. I hope to return to you soon, my lady.”

_I hope. No I promise. This is not a time for promises._

He mounted up then and rode away without a backwards glance. Not that Catelyn had expected him to look back.

She dared not make herself love him like she had made herself love Brandon when she was still a little girl. She might never see him again. But she’d do her best to learn to love him properly, when he returned. 

Catelyn went back inside. _I’ll make the best of it_ , she thought. _What more could a good wife do?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After more than doubling the word count of this fic at a stroke, I guess all I can say to you all is sorry. And also thanks. Actually, more thanks. Never too many.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback means the world to me. Thanks for reading!


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